The Games We Play
by Godell
Summary: Ch. 41 FIXED! There is a difference between selfishness and selflessness. A line almost as thin and slender as the line between sanity and madness. And it can be crossed with one simple choice. J/B, B/J. SLASH.
1. Chapter 1: Joker

**WARNING: **This fic is a rather morbid, messed-up piece of work. For the most part, the warning is that this is from the POV of a crazed (no matter how much he may deny it) man and his "relationship" with his "heroic" counterpart. Also included in this fic are: rough sex (yes, I said it), suggestive and occasionally mildly crude language or turns of phrase, hinted non-consensual sex between said crazed maniac and a young woman, and psychological analysis.

**The Games We Play**

**By**

**Godell**

Disclaimer: I don't own _The Dark Knight_, only this oneshot. The title belongs as much to Eric Berne as any other author…judging by how common a title it is.

**Chapter One (Joker)**

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He's late.

Normally he doesn't take this long to get here. I've had everything ready to go since about 10:30. That was about two hours ago.

'Course, just because I have everything _ready, _doesn't mean I'm going to _use _everything. Nothing's planned in this little tryst, really. It's just…_fun._

Still, waiting _this _long gets me a little…edgy.

I hate when he plays hard to get. That's normally _my_ role in this lovely little game we've been playing.

I lean back in my seat in the empty, dingy hotel lobby, sharpening my favorite knife for the hundredth time. My plum suit's getting a bit dusty, but that doesn't matter. It'll get dirty soon, anyway—that's the way I like it.

I check the old clock on the grimy, peeling wall. 12:46.

I sigh. _Looks like it's time to pull the first card._

"I _could _just leave," I say out loud, the scrape of the knife against the steel bar in my hand giving my words a better _edge. _"I've got all _sorts _of chaos to make. There are so many people in Gotham—so many…_choices._"

I lick my lips and taste the bitter clown makeup on my tongue. "Perhaps I'll find a little nurse down at the hospital. I like nurses—or girls, I should say. So soft—so easy to…so easy to break. Not like Batsy."

Nothing. No sound, no Batsy, _nothing._

I check my watch—maybe the clock on the wall isn't working properly.

I shrug and keep talking to thin air, knowing Bats is there(!). Or if he isn't, well, y'know, one of the best things about being a guy like me is…you never get bored.

"Of course, I'm a guy of varied tastes. Simple, but…varied. Other men will break too. A police officer, maybe. Or a police_woman_. Or both." I'm practically purring with approval at _that _idea. "Oh, yes, yes. Getting those uniforms off would be a bit of a hassle, but it wouldn't take long for them to…_lighten up._"

Of course, talking about uniforms brings me to another, and currently more frustrating, "uniform". I lean back and prop my legs up on the coffee table, fiddling with my tie.

"But see, darlin', it's just not the _same. _No, Bats, you're my favorite playmate. And no matter who I _turn the screw on_, if you know what I mean, _you're _the only one who always comes back for more."

My soliloquy is rudely interrupted by a silver batarang that barely misses my head and pierces the wall.

"It's the only way to preoccupy you, _Joker_," a deliciously familiar voice growls.

I grin (but then, I'm _always _grinning, aren't I?) and look behind me, where Bats is standing by the door, as stony-faced as ever. He's in uniform, of course, and I want to get him out of it as soon as possible.

In fact, he _should _be getting out of it right about now. That's normally how this goes.

"You're late," I say, putting on a scowl…considerable work, as you might guess.

"I had other criminals to deal with."

I raise an eyebrow. "And that matters because…?"

Batman crosses his arms over his chest, his scowl and voice somehow getting even _colder_. "I'm not wearing this for _your _sake, Joker."

I can't help but laugh at _that. _"Oh, yes you are. Don't play dumb, Batsy—I'm the only one who's ever given you a real _challenge_. And vice versa."

I lick the scars at the corners of my mouth slowly, watching Batsy's eyes follow my tongue.

"Now. Time for you to take this affair a little…more…_seriously._"

--

We have an agreement, Batsy and I. We have an…_accord_.

I was let out of the Arkham Asylum a year ago. I celebrated with the death of a family—just a Mommy, Daddy, Daddy's Little Girl and Jr. I waited for Batsy to show up, to start the game again. I was patient—no explosives, no threats, and I even made sure a kid called 911 before her oh-so-_hilarious _demise.

I wanted it to be just me, and Batman.

He _did _arrive, all gruff and heroic, pounding my face into the ground, making me laugh harder than I had in a long, long time.

It was good, oh so_ good_ to be back.

Once I got up again (and I always will; _anything_ for him), we had a stare-down, man to man, freak to freak. The blood was already beginning to dry, and the girl wasn't of use anymore. I propped her up beside me, her pretty little arms folded on her naked lap.

"Out with a bang, eh?" I grinned as Batman raised his fists again, then stopped. "You know, Batsy, there _is _a way you can keep me from doing all this."

"I'm not taking off my mask," he growled.

I rolled my eyes. "Oh, _reeelax. I'll _take it off youwhen I'm good and ready. It's no fun knowing so early. No, that's not what I'm talkin' about."

"Then say what you _mean_ for once, you bastard."

I rested my chin in my hand, not saying anything, just…_watching. _

"Do you…enjoy a good, ah, _power struggle?_"

--

I can't help but nod appreciatively as Bats stands still, still as the buildings looming in the window behind him.

"You're getting…_good _at this. Very good." I run one fingernail down his bare spine, grinning at the ever-so-slight _tensing _of those tough, well-muscled arms. "Take off your mask—but don't look at me."


	2. Chapter 2: Joker

Disclaimer: I don't own _The Dark Knight _or Batman.

**Chapter Two: Joker**

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

We've never done _this_ before.

He's a little on edge, I can tell. It's funny—you would think he would _expect _something like this to happen. But I suppose even Batman has his, ah, blond moments.

I have to admit I'm a little tense myself. It's a powerful moment for us, after all. The game's got new rules, and I'm fine with making…_adjustments. _

Slowly, Batman reaches up and takes hold of the mask, and for a moment I almost think he'll hit me. Not that…not that that would be a _bad _thing. No, no, even if he _does _smack me around, the mask'll be gone one way or the other.

"Well?" I ask, crossing my arms and cocking my head to one side, wetting my lips. "You're not a coward, are ya?"

_That _does it.

He takes the mask off—_finally_—and I hum at the slicked-back dark hair he shows me. I take a good-sized chunk of hair and pull—not enough to snap his neck, of course, but certainly enough to get a _reaction. _

"Ah," I whisper, as my free hand rests over his heart. "Good."

I can feel his heart beating quicker already, knowing that _he _knows what's going to happen—or what _may _happen.

"Next time," I purr, letting go of him and turning toward my bag of goodies, "you're going to arrive on time, aren't you, Batsy?"

"If will if _you _do."

I pull out one of my favorite toys—bought only a few months ago at one of Gotham's seediest stores—and smack it against my palm, admiring its weight, power…_possibilities. _

"Sure, sure." I shrug and get to work.

--

Our "relationship" isn't safe, or kind, or loving. It's _lethal _and _painful _and _sticky_, and while he won't admit it, Batsy likes it that way.

He likes the control, I'm sure, the way it can go both ways.

Sometimes it'll be _me _on the floor of that dingy apartment, laughing my ass off (no pun intended) and getting rug burn as he puts all the force he can into whatever he's doing (I'm usually not exactly _coherent _at the time, so whatever he does is whatever he does), making me _scream_. I like it that way too—there's a certain way he _does it_, see, it's like he can't decide to kill me or keep me for the next round.

He's gentle sometimes, too. He'll bring me to whatever soft thing's nearby at the time—bed, couch, whatever—and takes things slow, takes the time to _look _and _taste_. It's not _too _bad, I guess, but it's still not quite my style. I prefer things…_flashier. _More _intense, _y'know?

Of course, once he's looked at everything, everything goes to hell again. And I _love it, _because in my mind, the best way to get away from everything is through chaos.

--

Batsy groans and digs his nails into his palms, pretending none of this matters.

Oh, but it does. I _know _it does, because he's able to let go this way. He's able to forget who I've killed, who he's _let die_, and how _humiliating _this whole situation _would _be for him if not for that forgetfulness.

But I can't have him forget. Oh, no, I want him…_here. _

"Y'know, if people lifted up the blinds, they could see us. You…me. 'Course, they wouldn't know who it was. They'd just see me and some poor bastard getting their kicks."

_Crack. _

I giggle as little cuts appear on his palms, coating his fingernails in the most erotic red.

"But maybe they _would _recognize you. What then, Batsy? Maybe you're some high-up politician…or a lawyer…or a policeman. Is that why you like this so much? A kinda, uh, _stress relief_?"

He groans again as I bite his ear—not hard enough to draw blood, but close enough.

"…What does it matter…Joker?"

I giggle at that, letting go of his ear and stepping back again. "Oh, it matters, Batsy. It matters…because you and me, we're stuck like this. Forever."


	3. Chapter 3: Joker

This will be the last Joker POV chapter for a while. Enjoy.

Disclaimer: I don't own _The Dark Knight._

**Chapter Three: Joker**

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

When I said a long, long time ago that madness was like gravity, I hadn't yet found out that the phrase didn't quite apply to Batsy.

No matter how many times I push him, _somehow _he doesn't…fall. Not completely. Maybe he'll stumble. Maybe he'll have to—to grab hold of something, but he doesn't _fall. _He's a regular knight, just as they all say.

That's one thing I hate about him.

But there are more things about him that…_entertain me. _

--

Other times, it'll be _him_, like some kind of screwed-up _saint_, putting that cruel, guilt-ridden mouth of his to good use. I like seeing Batsy that way—still masked, hands tied behind his back, my hand on his shoulder gripping harder with each breath.

Or he'll lie there. I make him utter simpering bleats like a hooker…as though he really _is _a hooker. Maybe he _is_, for all I know.

And I _know _he likes that, because…it's in his _eyes, _see, this _look _of mindless _need_. He'll grab my shoulders _hard_, and I'll laugh because, c'mon, it's _the goddamn_ _Batman_, the guy who hates me with every drop of blood in his body. I like watching that mouth of his open up in a soundless scream, as he pitches back all loose and mindless on the floor.

Either way, we get what we want.

I guess you could call it…"enemies, with benefits".

--

I sigh and look at my handiwork, lovingly stroking Batsy's neck as he sprawls out in front of me.

He's blindfolded of course, by my own red tie, and the moonlight's hitting him in _just the right way_, letting me see the beautiful pattern of welts on his skin that _I _made, that only _I _can make. The purplish marks begin between his shoulders (but not on the spine) and end lower, at what I'm sure many a girl (if he has one) treasures. Of course, the way he was carrying on before makes me wonder if "girl" is not…_right_. After all, the way he looked at Harvey was…

_Mmmm._

He's sweating, as if he's already out of the game, as if we're _done. _But he knows we're not done.

"Tired already?" I ask, patting his cheek lightly, making it seem like I care. "Bad Batsy, no biscuit."

He doesn't answer me at first. Could it be…?

"You know, I don't want to kill you. Really. Say the safeword anytime."

"…Shut up…" he growls, and I giggle. He's alive, at least.

"Are you…done?"

"No idea," I reply, grinning at the answer Batsy's already presenting. "I see _you're _not."

I haul him to his feet and go back to the chair. He doesn't resist, though he would if he could—he can't _see, _after all—and only growls a little when I set him down, perching him like a king on a throne.

"Let's get this over with."

I grin and crouch down a little, smiling.

"Sure."

--

I remember the very first time I heard of Batman.

But, see, to me it's all…_blurry. Life _is blurry. It's a—it's a bad connection. For example: I'll be putting a smile on a guy's throat—ah, face—and suddenly I'll remember how I got _my_ scars, and soon I'm not thinking about the, ah…_game_, I'm thinking about _ancient history. _That sort of thing.

Oh, and people's lives? Inconsequential. After they've served their purpose, there's nothing more I can do with them.

Except for Batsy.

I learned about him from second-rate street rats in town, and then through bigger fish. At first I thought they were…well, being superstitious _idiots_. But eventually I went to Gotham myself. And there was that bat-shaped light in the sky, telling me everything I needed to know.

It was then I decided "Hey! Why not see if this guy is for real, or if he's just the exaggerated by-product of drugged-up minds?"

--

I see his teeth flash in the moonlight as his lips draw back into a snarl, and I can feel the heat burning from his eyes even though I can't _see_ them. I close my eyes and pull those snarling lips toward mine, trying to keep my laughter more, uh, _subtle _as I feel him wince at the harshness of my hands and lips and oh how very _fine _I feel as his hands dig into my shoulders so familiarly.

Yes, this is a familiar scene—familiar responses, actions, almost…_predictable._

And we can't have _that. _

"Just a little longer," I tell him, sliding one finger underneath the blindfold.

He pulls away. "Don't—"

His hand reaches blindly out, and I take it and press it firmly back down.

"Re_lax_."

He growls again, and I roll my eyes and ignore him. This is only a game, and he knows what rules there are. Or what he _thinks _they are.

He throws his head back and grinds his teeth, and I know it hurts and I _love it_ and everything goes into overdrive and he's lost his _mind _as the chair groans and so does he and _oh, God _that's a beautiful sound 'cause that means it's almost—

He pitches forward, and I pull the tie loose.

Every King needs a…_Jester_…to keep him humble.

I've got to say, I play my part well.

And I'll _keep _playing my part well, until all's said and done, and Batsy gets boring.

I look into those black eyes, watching as his face goes from red to white and back to red.

"You won't be late again, will you…_Bruce?_" I taste the name on my tongue, trying to see if it fits. It's a little less awkward than Batman, but less…_playful _than Batsy.

I blink and he's gone, his clothes with him.

Or perhaps he isn't gone after all.

"Next time, I want to see _you _without your mask. I won't come otherwise, no matter what you pull." His voice is different now, less raspy.

It isn't bad. Better, actually. He doesn't sound like a chain smoker this way.

I ask the darkness, "What's gonna stop me from…_tracking _you? I have…_power_…over you now." I brush my hands on my pants, adjust my tie.

"The fact that it'll be boring without me."

Suddenly, I know he's gone.

And I laugh.


	4. Chapter 4: Bruce

Disclaimer: I don't own _The Dark Knight. _

**Chapter Four: Bruce**

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

I'm absolutely determined not to see him tonight.

My office at Wayne Enterprises seems _comforting_ as I sit here, doodling on my paperwork, the buzz of my employees muffled from behind the doors. The lights are comforting, dimmer than usual. I'll take my leave at 1:30 this afternoon. I told Mr. Fox to carry on while I was out—"I haven't been feeling well".

I wasn't lying.

I'm tenser than I've ever been before. I keep waiting for explosions, gunshots, some _damned maniacal laughter _to come bursting through the doors.

_That _was why, despite Joker's "handiwork" (the bruises—Alfred did his best) I'm at work today. I just can't—

_Rrrrrring._

I nearly jump as my black phone starts to ring. I put the intercom on, ask the secretary at the front desk who it is.

"It's someone named Joanna Dawes, but I'm not sure if it's a him or a her. Shall I put 'it' through?"

_Rrrrring, _the phone mocks. I glare at it.

"_Yes._" I very nearly growl out the word, and I'm relieved when the secretary hangs up. I switch the call to my private line.

_Rrrrrri— _

I quickly grab the phone and hit the call button. "Hello?"

"_Pickuppickuppickup—OH! Brucie-baby, how're ya?_" Joker's eerie giggle and fake girlish tone sets me on edge again, makes the connection crackle.

"Why the _hell _are you calling me?" I clench my free hand into a fist.

"_Why not?_" Joker asks sweetly. I can hear him fidgeting on the other end. "_Tell me…do you…_always _work this much? Or are you, ah, just…bein' a coward?_"

"_Batman _isn't a _coward_." I let my anger loose in the form of a familiar growl that I always take on when I'm Gotham's Dark Knight.

Joker giggles again. "_So…what does that make _Bruce Wayne, _then?_"

I close my eyes and try to think, to keep control, but it's always difficult when it's _him. _

"_Whatcha wearing right now, if I may be so bold?_" He has suddenly shifted perspective again, and I attempt to change accordingly.

"A suit. A business suit. Why?"

"_What color is it?_"

"Black."

I can hear Joker trying to hold in his laughter. "_You never change, do you?_"

"I have a date at 1:30," I tell him, and begin to hang up.

"_No you don't._"

I feel a bead of sweat roll down the back of my neck. "What do you mean?"

"_I have your little, ah, _black book_ here. You just _love_ this color, don't you? Oh, I can see right _here _that you, Mr. Playboy, don't have _anything _goin' on after work today._"

I look through my pockets, my briefcase. He's serious. It's not there.

Damn.

"How did you—"

Joker's laughter is loud and far-too-clear this time. "_Now, that'd ruin the game, wouldn't it?_"

"I don't have _time _for games, you _sick bastard_." I open my desk drawer and reach for my Batarangs—just in case he's closer than I think he is.

"_Oh, c'mon, Batsy, don't pretend that you n' me…that we don't _do things _every other night. That you're more than happy to play games when it, ah, _suits you_._"

"_Where are you,_" I ask, putting as much venom into my voice as I can.

"_Awww, are you worried about me?_"

"No. Now, _where are you._"

"_Fine, fine. I'm…hmm…about a block away from your shiny company. I'm coming to visit you, see?_"

"No. No, no, _no. _Don't come _anywhere _near—"

"_But what about your book?_" He sounds almost forlorn.

"I'll buy a new one. And I'll fill it in from memory."

"_Ah._"

Silence.

Then… "_So…who's this Alfred guy?_"

Unfortunately, that settles things.

"What're you waiting for?" I snarl.

His laughter hurts my ears as he hangs up.

--

It disgusts me how Gotham's soul is decided every other night by our "affair".

Joker creates some kind of havoc one night, and I go out to combat him, as I always do. We fight, I win (_he goes easy on me, I know he does_) and we both go home to clean our wounds. It's an established "dance", as he calls it, a twisted tango we've both learned the steps to, through practice alone.

The next night, we meet in a hotel—the same hotel every time, because usually we can't _stand _to not be on time, either of us. If I'm late, he takes it out on me. If _he's _late, I simply don't come.

But he's never late. _Ever. _

Once we meet, the "games" begin. We have sex—painful, strange sex that makes my mind hurt more than my body. There is no established order, really—whoever grabs the other first prevails. There are no _emotions_ attached, save for need. Once we get what we want, we go home to clean our wounds. Again.

I hate him. He knows this—perhaps he even _revels_ in it, revels as I use him for my own brief, bitter satisfaction. Revels as he slams me against the walls of that hotel, whispering terrible things as I do as he pleases, hating myself but also accepting the situation.

Sometimes he'll talk about Rachel. About how—just for a moment, at the party—he wanted to see her in the throes of mindless _want_, soft curves against his hands, all his. The feeling of her hair, silky and loose and wavy in his hands, able to be toyed with and stroked and tugged.

About that time I start to either pretend he isn't saying anything, or punch his smirking face.

Other times, he'll ramble about Harvey. About how he would've liked to have taken Harvey's innocent, naïve body and taught him the _other _lessons he had wanted to teach him.

"Chaos, you see, has all sorts of…_nuances_," Joker has informed me, his eyes hazy with thought. "Harvey didn't know _half _of it."

And then he'll come back to the present, smirk and say "Well, Batsy, you're _much _more fun than they would be."

It's times like those that I want to kill him.

But, of course, I can't. I'd _like _to say that it's because of my One Rule, but in reality it's far, far different. In reality, I need the loss and gain of control Joker freely gives me. I hate to admit it, but I doubt any other person would be so _able _to give me what I want.

It's the only way to save me from myself.


	5. Chapter 5: Bruce

Disclaimer: I don't own _The Dark Knight_, or the playground rhyme _The Burning of the School. _

**Chapter Five: Bruce**

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

After what seems like an eternity, my desk phone rings.

"Yes?" I try not to sound irritated, but obviously it's a little difficult in this situation.

"_Miss Joanna Dawes is here. Shall I let her in?_" My secretary doesn't seem worried, for some reason. But then, she could be in a state of shock from having a knife or gun pointed at her.

With Joker around, it's always safest to think in worst-case scenarios.

"Go right ahead," I say, hoping my playboy persona is coming through.

It turns out I don't have to wait very long. Soon enough, "Joanna" comes flouncing in, wearing a green tweed business suit…for women. With his hair up in a bun—obviously dyed brown. The skirt reaches his knees, and I can see his multi-colored socks, glaringly obvious.

The worst part, though, is that he isn't wearing his "war paint". No, he's covered his face with a silk scarf, making sure that no one noticed him. Whether it worked or not, I'm not going to bother to ask.

"Like it?" Joker purrs, taking off the scarf like a stripper. The scars—while a little less gruesome than usual—seem to take up his entire face. "I did just as you said. Came right here with your, ah, _precious_ book—and I don't even have my face on."

I hold out my hand. "Give me the book."

Joker frowns and perches himself on my desk, one hand demurely on his lap, the other holding the book out of my reach. His eyes are wide with innocence, and I can still see the madness in them. His actions always carry the feeling of the Burlesque. He is a sick parody of humanity dressed in the greatest joke of all—human skin.

"If I _do_," he says slowly, a quick pink flicker of tongue across chapped lips, "What'll you give _me _as a reward?"

I glare at him, saying nothing.

"I've been a good boy," he adds, his eyes meeting mine—are they black or green? "I haven't killed anyone today. I even bought this suit myself."

"That doesn't mean you haven't done something _else _to compensate." I feel a familiar growl enter my voice. "Don't play around, Joker. This is serious."

"Oh, I know _all about _being serious. I just choose…_not_ to be." His expression suddenly perks up. "Speaking of 'serious'…why does _this_ little thing"—he waves it mockingly in front of my face, snatching it away before I can grab it—"matter to you so much?"

"You're dirtying it," I say smoothly, grabbing it when Joker dances it in front of my face. He's humming some kind of carnival tune under his breath.

Joker looks at his hands, wiggles his fingers and looks back at me.

"You sure?"

I give him a look and place the book back in my suitcase, where it belongs. I don't bother to answer the question.

Joker pouts, and I can't help but wince at the way his scars seem to become even _more _pronounced. "Spoilsport."

There is silence again for a few moments. Joker hums some kind of dramatic tune under his breath, tapping his fingers on my desk to the beat. I suddenly realize the tune is "The Battle Hymn of the Republic"—an ironic twist, I suppose.

I'm already losing my patience.

"_Mine eyes have seen the glory of the burning of the school…_" Joker sings, grinning as wickedly as ever. "_We have tortured all the teachers_—"

"Why are you still here?" I ask, standing up and ready to drag him out the door.

"I have…a _game _in mind." Joker raises his eyebrows and tucks his chin coyly. "It'll be fun, I promise."

"It had better not involve innocent civilians."

"Batsy, Batsy, Batsy," Joker purrs, "_no one _is innocent. Even if they don't have a criminal record. It's time you learned that."

"And it's time _you _learned that you will _always_ be alone. The ferry proved that." It's a cruel retort, I know, but then Joker doesn't know what remorse _is. _

Joker's laughter is harsh and short. "Oooh, that _hurt. _I'm touched, Batman, really…I _am._"

The look he gives me is hardly filled with gratitude.

"My name is Bruce _Wayne_."

"No, it's _not. _No…no…_no._" Joker leans back slightly and smirks. "It's Batman. It's time _you _learned that."

I snarl and grab him by the collar, pulling him close. "You said you had a game in mind. Tell me what it is and get out."

Joker claps his hands. "Good, good! Now, here's the thing. This morning I looked around for some 'Wanted' posters. None of me, sadly, but what're you gonna do?"

He licks his lips briefly, that smirk still present.

"_Any_way, I found a couple people from the posters—little fishies—and hung 'em out to dry for awhile. They've got a nice view of the city from the clock tower. But here's the catch: out of the ten criminals, five are 'innocent civilians'. But they all look like criminals. They talk like criminals, act like criminals. In fact, tweak their pasts a little and they could even be in the same…'business'. _Your _job is to find out which ones are the fakes and which ones are the fish."

I don't buy that as being the only catch. "There's something else, I'm sure."

Joker giggles. "Of course. I've poisoned them all. They're set to die in…" He checks the clock. "Twenty minutes."

I quickly let go of him and prepare to leave, grabbing my things. Only a few more minutes until 1:30. Joker hops off my desk and strolls over to the door, wrapping his scarf around his neck again, obscuring his face.

"Later, Batsy," he calls, humming that sick parody of "Battle Hymn of the Republic" yet again.

"One thing." I clutch my briefcase tightly.

"Mm?"

"Why did you put them at the top of the clock tower?"

Joker shrugs. "I wanted it to be dramatic." He turns the doorknob, clearly feeling his business is done. "Now, 'scuse me, but—"

"No." I walk briskly over to him, already forming a plan.

Joker blinks. "What." It isn't a surprised question. It's a remark that's full of cheery menace.

"You're coming with me."

Joker grins. "Bad idea, don't you think? I mean, I'd see your hideout—"

"Not if I blindfold you first."

Joker wriggles his eyebrows, then stops at the sight of my expression. "What?"

"Let's go, then."

"I have to change—"

"Change on the way. The Lambourgini has darkened windows."

Joker's eyes widen in a way that could almost be considered comical. "The _what?_"

"Lambourgini. A car."

"Yeah, yeah, I _know _that, but…not exactly _subtle, _are you?"

"If I recall," I reply bitterly, "a certain someone had an eighteen-wheeler _truck _in his arsenal."

"Which you _flipped over_ with a teeny-tiny _Bat-cycle_. _Luckyyyy_. I'm surprised you're even out of training wheels." Joker looks at me sideways. "Are _you _gonna drive?"

"It's a Bat-_pod_. Of course I'll drive. Why?"

Joker snorts. "Like I said, 'training wheels'."

I decide to ignore the insult…for now.

I place my hand on Joker's shoulder, putting on my playboy persona again. "Just think of it as me escorting a lady back to her house. Everyone will think nothing of it."

"Y'know, it's not like I'm going to _help _you. In fact, I could be a…_bad influence._" Joker grins wickedly.

I smirk in return. "I know. That's what I'm counting on."


	6. Chapter 6: Bruce

…I sense the beginning of an ongoing plot here. Oh, boy. I'm actually tempted to go back and re-do the last three chapters, to give them a little more _purpose. _Yes?

Disclaimer: I don't own _The Dark Knight._

**Chapter Six: Bruce**

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

I'm suddenly wishing I hadn't brought him along.

"_…We have tortured all the teachers, we have broken all the rules…_"

I can hear Joker rustling around in back, pulling on clothes. I know from unfortunate experience he's very quick about getting clothes on and off—as quick as he is with his knives. I watch in the rearview mirror as he puts on his waistcoat.

"…_We have even spanked ol' Gordon and kept him after school…_" Joker winks at me through the mirror and waves. "_And our troops keep mar-ching on!_"

"Stop singing," I say, swerving as a car tries to navigate around me. "I'm trying to concentrate."

Of course, Joker doesn't care in the least. He leans against the window, pulling on his coat.

"_Glory, glory halleluiah! Teeeacher hit me with a ruuuulerrr…_"

I keep quiet until he runs through the entire horrible song, then goes silent. He puts on the rest of his clothes absent-mindedly save for his tie. He takes care to adjust the lapels of his jacket just so.

"You don't like my singing?" Joker asks abruptly.

"No."

"Then you must be, ah, a regular _Frank Sinatra_, then." Joker giggles.

"I haven't sung in a long time," I say, swearing as someone makes the mistake of trying to tailgate me.

Joker splays his hands out on the seat, teeth bared. "I was _right. _You can't drive for—"

"_Shut up,_" I snarl, and the cars begin honking loudly on all sides, as if to accentuate my words.

"Oooh, clever, clever," Joker replies mockingly, as the light changes to red. "Look, it's giving you a warning." He puts on a high-pitched, shrill voice. "_Batman, if you don't watch your mouth…_"

I try my best to ignore him. The light turns green.

"Well?" he asks, as we zip down yet another alleyway and park. We're not quite to the makeshift-Batcave yet. "Are we here?"

"No." I step out of the car and open his door, glad that his tie is loose. "Time to blindfold you."

Joker looks up at me, eyes wide. "Gosh, Mister," he simpers, clasping his hands together in mocking sainthood. "I didn't think you'd be so…_forward _to a sweet thing like me!"

"Stop pretending to be a woman," I say, taking his tie and wrapping it around his head, covering his eyes. "You've made the 'punchline' already."

"No, I haven't," Joker retorts—almost _whines_—as I lead him out of the car.

"We don't have time for this," I growl, holding his hands behind his back. "Do you want to play your games or not?" I feel more like a parent then a vigilante.

Joker grumbles and fumes, but walks regardless. I constantly check to make sure no pedestrians are around—their reactions to _this _would be nothing short of panic.

I find it chilling that Joker slowly relaxes, his movements hurried but loose.

--

There are times when I can't figure out if the nights in the hotel are fact or fiction.

Sometimes we'll go through with the scenario, sometimes we'll only go so far. It all depends on what happened previously. Who bested whom, who used the most cunning.

All I understand is that there are promises that we make on those nights. They aren't romantic promises, not in the usual sense. They are carnal promises, elegant in their simplicity. And sooner or later, they are all "cashed in".

Whether the ideas are in our heads, or out of them.

--

I manage to reach the bunker/Batcave without suspicion—one of the perks of being a billionaire. Alfred isn't there, it seems, so luckily I don't have to explain why I'm frog-marching a psychopathic clown into the Batcave. I'll have to explain it eventually, though.

I keep Joker in my sight (though he doesn't have that option at the moment) and hurriedly put on the suit. I watch as his lips twitch with every _click _and _snap _of the Kevlar being put into place.

I'm done in record time, and with time running out I hurriedly set him loose.

"Here."

I don't give him time to look the Batcave over. The Tumbler is back in action, freshly-repaired and ready to go. I push Joker inside and rev up the engine.

"Ten minutes left," Joker says, grinning fit to burst, looking around the Tumbler as if it were a Christmas tree.

"I _know_." The Tumbler roars out of the Batcave and onto the streets.

I can only hope I'm in time…


	7. Chapter 7: Joker

Disclaimer: I don't own _The Dark Knight. _

`**Chapter Seven: Joker**

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

I'm in heaven.

Sadly, it's not quite the heaven I'd _like_—the best type of heaven is the one you make with your own hands—but close enough.

"Hmm…pretty chic, Batsy." I run a finger over one of the many buttons. I don't press it—who knows _what _would blow up. I like explosions to be…_specific. _"Betcha you've caused many a racecar driver to go green, eh?"

"Sit still," Batsy orders, and I notice that I've been fidgeting. "I have to keep my eyes on the road. I don't have the patience to deal with you right now."

"Such a…_romantic_," I say sweetly. "Y'know, I'm surprised you don't have an extra seat in here. Like riding alone?"

I'm squished against his side in the surprisingly-tiny compartment, and (un?)fortunately, there's only one seatbelt. Like good children, we have to share.

He doesn't reply.

I look out the window and see we're causing a bit of a…_ruckus. _Cars are slowing down, people are pointing and taking out their cell phones.

"You wanted to know the punchline, right?" I ask, folding my hands demurely on my lap, trying to keep a straight face. "How about I give you 50%?"

Batsy doesn't reply. I continue anyway.

"It's early afternoon, Batman." I bite my lip to keep from laughing. "You're off schedule."

It hits him then, and _that's _when I let myself go. I laugh so hard my ribs hurt as we tear through the city of Gotham, a paparazzi following in our wake.

"Does that mean the poisoned thugs are fake?" Batman looks like he would _love _to throttle me right about now. Tempting offer, but…

"Oh, no, they're real," I assure him, pouting as our paparazzi run out of motivation. "Looks like the citizens of Gotham are still lazy, lifeless lumps of flesh. Can't even keep up with _you._"

"I know the back-alleys of this city better than you, Joker." Batsy turns a corner, and now I _know _we're in no-man's-land.

I don't reply. We're almost there. I'm already starting to get…_psyched_ about the fun we'll be having. Unless, of course, the stupid fishies up in the clock tower decide to die on us. How stupid would _that_ be?

We stop, and the Tumbler slowly opens up, letting us out. Batsy fires his grappling hook and grabs me under the arm, and up, up we go…

I whoop with glee as we quickly scale the clock tower, Gotham City growing more sprawling as we go. The air seems to _vanish _from my lungs as we gain speed, and I can't help but feel…_alive. _

_Is this how Batsy feels? _I wonder, as we reach the top of the tower.

Batsy lands solidly on the edge of the tower, walking quickly before letting go of my arm. It's almost as if I'm…_a concern _for him. It's not like I'm going to _push _him off the tower. Or that he has to worry about _my _safety.

Well, I _do _like pushing him, just…not _literally _when it comes to Batsy_. _

The fishies are waiting, trussed up and already turning pale at both the sight of us and the poison running through their veins .

Batman goes to them, and I calmly watch as the show unfolds. He's hurrying, but not _too _much—he's surveying them, checking for certain _effects _from the poisoning, trying to figure out who of the lot is "innocent". He's certainly having a hard time, that's for sure. Just what I was going for.

"You used Methanol, didn't you?" he asks from over his shoulder, pulling out a series of small vials from his belt.

"Oooh, good call," I reply, moving closer. "Nothing like moonshine to get the job done. So, who're you gonna give those vials to?"

"All of them." He tips the vial into the nearest fish's mouth, making him drink every last drop. He moves on to the next one. And the next.

"Y'know," I say slowly, clearing my throat for emphasis, "there's a chance that you're…_too late. _Either way, these guys _will _die. Or their brains and livers will be history."

"At least I tried to help them."

"So…you're willing to help the robbers? The gangbangers? The guys who beat their wives for the hell of it?" I press on, now close enough to watch the fishies stare at Batman with pathetic hope.

"I'm making sure they're alive to be put on trial."

I chuckle. "Which ones?"

Batsy doesn't even slow down. Soon, the fishies have all had their dose of Bat-Meds, and he can get to work.

"This one is innocent." He points to a lanky, piercing-covered punk who looks relieved to see Gotham's Dark Knight.

I don't confirm or deny Batsy's decision. I just watch as he moves to the next fish in line.

"This one is guilty. I've seen him in the news. He shot his wife after—"

"After a lousy day at work," I finish, smiling at the chubby man in question. "What's it like, being, ah, _famous _around the workplace?"

Batsy glares at me, and I whistle innocently.

"Mind if I help?" I ask, crouching down beside one of the fish. "This guy, he's got one hell of a right-cross. His girlfriend can attest to _that_."

Batsy looks at the fish, then back at me.

"He's innocent."

"Have it your way." I sigh and point out another fish. "I found that guy at the bank. He wanted a loan for a car, I think. Too bad he met _me_."

"He's guilty."

"How d'you know?" I ask, raising an eyebrow.

"Gordon told me about him."

I grin. "Ah-ta-ta-ta, _no blinking. _Now I know you aren't telling the _truuuth._"

The fake-trial continues, Batsy softly proclaiming "innocent" and "guilty", as though his opinion is the be-all, end-all.

Every time I say "Oh, this guy's a murderer" or "this guy's innocent", Batsy always claims the opposite. It's an easy trick, but a good one. He's caught on to me.

A little.

I try mixing things up a little, but it doesn't seem to matter. Oooh, I forgot how _frustrating _this man can be…

Once the fish are all sorted into neat little clumps, Batsy uses the rope to tie them all up again. Five criminals, five pedestrians—just _peachy_.

"The cops will be coming soon," Batsy says, turning on his heel. "Let's go."

"Fine by me." I latch onto his arm and down, down we go, back to the Tumbler and into rush hour.

I still haven't said the punch line yet.


	8. Chapter 8: Joker

Here's a question for all you readers—does anyone know what the inside of Bruce Wayne's penthouse is like? I know he has a bedroom of sorts, and a ballroom, and _possibly _a sitting room, but other than that, I'm clueless.

By the way--thanks, **Indigo's Ocean**, for telling me that _Beethoven _wrote "Ode To Joy", not Mozart. My mistake!

Disclaimer: I don't own _The Dark Knight_, or any of the bands/songs mentioned here.

**Chapter Eight: Joker**

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Batsy drops me off near Robinson Park, just like I asked him to.

He's somehow managed to "change" (he can _never _change) out of his suit. He went to his oh-so-cozy hideout (which I didn't see again) to put the Tumbler away, and slipped into his "Bruce Wayne" skin. Perfect slicked back hair, soft, friendly (even a little clueless) smile, and enough charm to cause even the most stubborn of men to question their sexuality—or their _business prospects_.

It's a good skin, but a poor substitute for who he really is.

Speaking of skin, since I still haven't put on my face yet (as per Batsy's request), I look relatively…_mundane _at the moment. Despite my own _special _style, almost no one would get that it is me underneath this oh-too-pink fleshy canvas.

I _hate _being mundane.

"Wish we could've spent some time together," I say, running my hand through my hair absent-mindedly. "The Tumbler doesn't have a radio, does it?"

"It has communication. That's all I need." Batsy's eyes flicker slightly with annoyance.

"Don't you ever…listen to music?" I ask, giving him my most appalled look. "Punk? Jazz? Rock n' roll? World?"

"If I did, I wouldn't tell _you_," he replies sternly, sounding a little more like the Batsy I'm used to.

Oooh…that _hurt_.I think I might need a band-aid to patch up my, ah, poor _bleeding _heart.

"You'll be all right here?" Batsy asks, leaning out the car window, his eyes a little unfocused.

He looks tired. Stressed. Maybe even a little…_proud_. (It's always worse when you're proud _and _stressed). After all, he again did the impossible. The Brave Batman went out in the daytime to foil a oh-so-_sinister _plot by the most, ah, _dashing _of knaves Gotham—no…the _country_—has ever known.

"I'll be just…_peachy._" I grin and turn away. "See you later, love."

I don't look back as his car drives away. I'll see him soon.

--

I take my time riffling through the stacks of fabric at the Arts and Crafts Center near the park.

I've sewn everything from the waistcoat I wear to the scars on my face (and other places). Call it a…_recreational hobby _of mine. I like seeing what I can make with a few scraps of fabric and bits of string and needles. Whatever comes out at the end looks decent enough to wear. Usually.

That nurse outfit I wore to visit Harvey cut it pretty close—the hospital nearly changed their clothing policy on me. I would've stuck out like dynamite sticking out of a dog's…

Anyway. The point is, I feel like being a little…_creative _in other ways.

I grab a bunch of fabric—purple, black, and green—and dump it at the cash register. There's a cute girl there. Pretty red lips. White smile. Perky in more ways than one.

She looks _delicious_, but I've got a Bat on the brain.

"That's $25.50," she tells me, and I hand over the cash, taken from the last bank I robbed (there's a lot more where _that_ came from).

"_Thank _you," I tell her, grinning as I walk out the door, bag in hand.

--

My boys grow quiet as I amble into my hideout, not really paying attention to them or the world around me. I have more…_interesting_ things to think about. My face is back on now, thank God. I feel more like my old self.

The hideout was once a stripper bar in what is now Old Gotham—it still has the poles and pin-up girls to prove it—but now it serves a better purpose. It's beat-up, grungy (though I keep my rooms clean for the sake of paradox) and covered with enough booby traps to set even Batsy on edge.

And for the moment, it's…_home. _With multiple roomies. _Stupid _roomies.

"How'd your day go, Boss?" one of the boys asks from over his hand in Poker. It's a simple question from a simple person, doing something simple for a simple gain.

"Fine n' dandy," I tell him, taking the rickety stairs two at a time.

"Anything to do tonight, Boss?" another yells from the pool table.

I turn around when I reach the landing and peer down at him. "It was _lov_-er-_lee_," I tell him, adding "Be prepared for some noise, gents."

I kick off my shoes as I head toward my room, still dragging the bag of fabric along. Unlocking my door, I step inside. I lock it behind me. Can't be too careful with all these weirdoes running around.

Good. My room's exactly as I left it. My sewing/First-Aid kit is by the bed, where it should be. The CD player is on the right station—I added the radio myself. The CDs are in the right place. My workbench is still covered with knives and sewing needles and cell phones and cake crumbs. Oh, and crayons and magazines.

I dump the bag by my workbench and grab one of my many mix CDs, placing it in the player and hitting play. Ah, _Pink Floyd. _Always the best person to, ah, _work_ by.

I let the guitar strings slither into my ears, and I feel all that _tension _from Batsy slip away…for the moment. "The Dark Side of the Moon" is all I'm tuned in to for the time being.

"_Re-membering games…of daisy chains and laughs…_" I croon, waving my hands in time to the music, pretending to conduct it. "_Got to keep the loonies on the path…_"

They say music soothes the savage beast (or breast), but to me…music _awakens _it. You see, depending on my mood (and what music I play as a result), I can find a new way to preach my philosophy to the poor, undefined _masses_. I'll rig bombs while listening to _Beethoven'_s "Ode To Joy". I'll create a hostage situation to _Frank Sinatra's_ "Luck Be A Lady Tonight". I'll prepare for an evening of "games" with whomever captures my interest, while listening to _Placebo_'s "Taste In Men"_. _The list goes on.

Despite all my artistic choices, _unfortunate-ly_, I can't find a certain song that fits Batsy. It's more of a…_mish-mash _with him. I like it that way.

I sit down at my workbench and grab the nearby needles and spools of thread. I reach for the fabric. Black first. I hum along to the song, muttering snatches of the lyrics as I take out my scissors and _snip-snip-snip_, the fabric takes shape.

I wonder how Batsy's doing. Maybe he already found the punchline already. Maybe he'll hear it on the news, or good ol' Gordon will tell him. Either way, I can't _wait_ to see his reaction.

All too soon, the song is over. _Motley Crue _takes over where my pal Floyd left off, and suddenly sewing isn't half as fun as dancing.

The floorboards creak under my feet as I leap into the air, kick my legs up, and shake my hips like a Molotov cocktail. The boys downstairs know enough now to stay out of my way when I'm like this. I get a little…_upset _at being interrupted.

While I'm dancing about, I find my thoughts roaming toward the delicious Flying Rodent Formerly Known As Bruce Wayne. What does _he _do for fun? Does he even know that "fun" _exists? _And what's with the no-less-than-six-girls-at-a-time approach to dating?

Somewhat reluctantly, I stop the music and look toward my closet. I smile as an idea takes shape.

I haven't looked at the tabloids before. Now might be a good time to, ah, _mix things up _a bit…

"Boys," I yell down, grinning so hard my scars hurt, "Does anyone have an issue of _Gotham Star _on 'em?"


	9. Chapter 9: Joker

Disclaimer: I don't own _The Dark Knight_, but I do own Gotham Stars and the Bruce Wayne Interview.

**Chapter Nine: Joker**

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

I sit back on my bed with my newly-acquired _fine literature_, _Gotham Stars_, flipping through it until I find what I'm looking for.

There. "AN INTERVIEW WITH BRUCE WAYNE: GOTHAM'S HOTTEST". I chuckle at the title, then find myself stopping as I get a good look at my Bat-pretending-to-be-a-boy, too-good-to-be-true, smiling at the photo camera like he was _made _for it.

Even I have to admire his taste. A single-piece suit the color of an oil spill fits him as tight as a glove. Only Armani for Brucie, eh? His hands are resting on his knees as he stares jovially out at me from behind the glossy prison of society. Of course, his hair is slicked back to let the readers see more of that fine face.

I turn the page, deciding that staring too long would segue into a fun, but unproductive, half hour. I can do that later.

On to the interview.

Just like I hoped, it's full of little, inane details about "hunky" Bruce Wayne—his favorite color (black), his idol as a child (Zorro—good choice), and my personal favorite, "_what is your ideal date?_"

His response? "_A candlelit dinner on my yacht._"

I laugh and laugh, slapping my knee at the mental image of Batman eating candles for dinner, on a squeaky-clean boat. In full gear. Now _that's _a joke.

My mind suddenly focuses on one object alone, and reluctantly I let myself run with it. I…don't have much _choice_, you see. I just…_go _with it.

_Candles…C-A-N-D-L-E-S. Wax. Good for torturing people. Scars…wanna know how I got 'em? Lover got a little _crazy _one night…said I wasn't enjoying it enough…hot wax. Candles are seen as, ah, _"phallic"_ by some people. They melt, though, so what does that mean? Fire melts marshmallows if you aren't careful. Crispy is best…_

Suddenly everything snaps back into focus again. I'm on the floorinstead of the bed, one hand still holding the magazine, nearly ripping it apart, while the other is clutching my knee tightly enough to make me wince.

So. Back to the interview.

Batsy's got all the bases covered, it seems: favorite movie? "_I'm not too sure._" Favorite book? "_I don't read—except for business briefs._" Favorite music? "_It varies._"

Quite the sneaky little devil. And I thought _I _was secretive.

I slowly stand up and take one of the crayons from my workbench and underline certain…_key phrases _in Batsy's charming answers. The Plan is slowly taking a clearer form.

Yes, a Plan. Remember: _anything _for Batsy.

Once I have the information I need, I stuff the magazine into my workbench drawer and decide to call it a day. Tomorrow's gonna be…_eventful._


	10. Chapter 10: Bruce

This week has _not _been the greatest. I sympathize with Batman quite a bit in this chapter—and the later ones to come. But hey, at least here he gets something romantic…sort-of.

Disclaimer: I don't own _The Dark Knight_, but I do own this plot.

**Chapter Ten: Bruce**

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Today has _not _been a good day.

Unsurprisingly, Joker's antics aren't helping things. Then again, I doubt he's the sentimental "milk-and-cookies" type. I'm not, either, so in that regard we're even.

"Hold _still,_" I growl as I snap the handcuffs onto yet another Joker minion.

"The Boss s-said—to come straight home once we see you—he'll be _mad_—"

"He's not your father," I tell him simply, watching his de-masked face contort into a blubbering mess. "Now, _why _did he tell you that?"

The goon sobs out a curse and I have to restrain myself from pushing for information. He's a man beset by hallucinations—he won't be able to tell me anything useful.

I decide to leave him to the authorities.

That's the tenth one tonight. Strangely enough, all of the "crimes" the clowns have committed are relatively minor—burglary, graffiti, and disturbing the peace. No murders, no arson, no threats on anyone's life. Truly minor infractions.

Something's not right.

Gordon contacts me. "_There's no sign of any other clowns around. We found a few of your handcuffs lying around, too. The clowns just…vanished._"

I turn around to check if my latest catch is still there. He isn't.

_Damn it._

I close my eyes. "Let them be," I growl. "I'll deal with them some other time."

There is a crackling pause. Then: "_All right. Nice doing business with you._"

"Thanks."

With that, I head to the hotel. Joker has some explaining to do.

--

I settle into the shadows just as Joker all-but-_prances _into the room, holding a rather large jar of oil in his hand.

He is wearing (surprisingly) simple clothes for once—a white-collared shirt and simple black pants. I wonder what the occasion is. Normally he wears his purple suit, but this time it seems he wants something a little different.

At least he isn't wearing a dress again. Once was enough…

I see that he has a clean white towel draped over a nearby couch, and a pillow near the armrest. A single dusty lamp is lighting up the room, casting everything in a dim glow. And Joker is smiling a smile that reminds me of every "nanny" movie I've ever been dragged to by my marriage-crazed dates.

"I'm guessing you, ah, had a bad day?"

"Yes. And it's your fault."

Joker gives me a grief-stricken look that does _nothing _to hide his amusement. "How could I do _that?_"

"Well—"

"Wait, wait, wait." Joker gestures toward the couch. "First, take off that gear. Can't have you collapsing on me."

I sigh and take off the Batsuit piece by piece as per usual, noting that Joker doesn't look quite as hungry as he usually does. He's more _thoughtful _somehow.

"Great, great. Now. Sit down." Joker gestures toward the couch again, and his eyes flicker slightly with impatience. "No, better yet, lie down on your stomach."

I do as he says, wondering what he has up his sleeve. "What's this all about?"

Joker bares his teeth in a way that is clearly meant to be reassuring. "Re_laaax._"

"Coming from you, that's never a good sign." I sigh and try to relax, knowing that _he _knows any wrong move will result in a "game" that he won't like.

"Thanks. Now, you were saying?" Joker moves out of my line of vision, and I force myself to lie still.

"Well, at first everything was more business-oriented," I explain, closing my eyes. "I found out that the Mob had scared two of my business partners into closing a deal. I dealt with that problem through negotiations on both sides—and _that_ took most of my day."

I stop as something warm slowly trickles across my shoulders, then down my back. Long, deadly-soft fingers rub and slap the warm something-or-other across my skin. That jar suddenly makes a lot more sense.

"Go on."

"I had to be oblivious to a mugging on my way home—didn't fit my image as 'Playboy Billionaire'. I called the police department, at least, but the mugger escaped just as I called. I would have gone looking for him, but…"

I crane my neck to scowl at Joker. It's rather difficult to scowl when warmth seems to be seeping into your very pores, but I do my best. Joker's hands are the hands of an artist and a killer, and he knows when to use their various abilities to his advantage.

"…But I'm guessing I, ah, kinda ruined that plan?" He actually sounds sheepish for once.

"What inspired you to send out your men for no reason at all?" I ask bitterly, unable to hold back a sigh as my muscles slowly loosen up.

"I'm not sure."

I snort. "Liar."

Joker giggles and makes a "tsk-tsk" noise. "C'mon, Batsy, don't abuse the masseur. You should know _that._"

Joker's hands continue their ministrations, and I feel my bad mood slide away—for the most part. I'm being massaged by my _nemesis_, after all, and there's something more than a little _off _about that. Normally _I'm _the one who tries to be gentle, not the other way around.

"Okay, flip over, Batsy. _There _we go." Joker grunts and assists in turning me over—I can't seem to find the energy to do so myself. His hands smell like fresh grapes.

"Why are you doing _this, _then?" I ask, groaning softly at the familiar-but-different touch.

"I was supposed to take care of you after last time, remember? That was part of our deal. We both need to be…well, at our _best _for this whole thing to work. After you ran off—"

"I didn't _run._" I scowl, irritated at Joker's choice of words.

"_Suuuuure _you didn't. Anyway, when you _ran _or _flew _or _bunjee-jumped _away, I remembered our deal and, ah, got a little _worried._ So I made this."

I can't help but be surprised. "You were _worried?_"

"Well, you _are _a better class of _order_. I'm a better class of criminal. See?"

I close my eyes as he moves his attention toward my feet. I have a feeling there's something _wrong _with this scene, but at the same time, it's been a rough day and—

"So…did you get a good look at this mugger guy?"

I open my eyes and stare at Joker, who is putting on his best "Don't-look-at-_me_" expression. His hands are splayed out on my stomach, rubbing gently. His eyes are half-lidded, cunning. I wonder if he's been standing in the same position this whole time.

"Why do you want to know?"

Joker grins. "Just a businessman's curiosity. I might know the guy, see. Or girl."

"It was a man. He had a tattoo on his left cheek. I can't remember what it was exactly."

"Gotcha. By the way, feel any better?"

"Much. I'm guessing you want payback for your service?" I slowly sit up, sighing with relief at how easily I can move my body now.

"Oh, no, no. You've had a rough day, Batsy, and I…_respect _that."

Joker yawns and ambles over to the bathroom, leaving me alone with my suspicions.


	11. Chapter 11: Bruce

Disclaimer: I don't own _The Dark Knight_, only this plot.

**Chapter Eleven: Bruce**

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It feels strange not to continue our usually-sexual encounter, but at the same time it's also a nice change.

I wouldn't have been able to play Joker's games anyway—that massage of his has left me in a warm puddle of limbs on the couch. So comfortable—I have no intention of moving.

Joker steps out of the bathroom, hands freshly washed. He grabs a nearby chair and pulls it toward the couch, sitting with one hand over the back of the chair, the other limp on the seat.

"So, was that as good as the masseurs in that private parlor of yours?" he asks, that all-too-familiar smug look in place.

"Mm-hmmm…" Is all I can say. No time for words, feels too nice. I haven't felt this relaxed in a long time…but I know it'll wear off soon, so I savor it while it lasts.

His words suddenly sink in.

"What are you talking about?" I try to ask, but what comes out is "Whasaryoo awkin' boot?"

Joker's laughter is loud and shrill. "I really _got _you, didn't I?"

I shake my head to clear away the haze. "How do you know about the parlor?"

Joker crosses his ankles, multi-colored socks flashing into view from beneath his pants' leg. "You're not the only one who does research, Batsy. I'm a little more…_astute _than you might think."

I glare at him. "Have you been _stalking _me?"

Joker snorts. "Oh, come _on, _Batsy, I don't _need _to stalk _you. _I know how you think by now. No, no, stalking is too _simple _for you. Besides, why stalk, when I can have you, _here?_"

I roll my eyes and turn my attention toward the window. There is a long period of silence, one that almost makes me close my eyes and sleep. But I can't with _him _in the room. No, that would be like sleeping in front of a hungry wolf. There's too big a chance of being eaten alive.

"Y'know, all it takes is one bad day to make Average Joe go ape. How're you feeling? Tired? A little sad? Maybe even…_lost?_"

My eyes snap open at Joker's slippery remarks. I turn my head to face him. A strange feeling of unease squirms inside my gut.

"A little tired, yes." I stand up and reach for my Batsuit, beginning to put it on. "I'm going to call it a day."

"All right, 'suit' yourself." Joker yawns and stretches. "But…before you go…"

I barely have time to react. One second he's sitting comfortably in his chair, the next he's inches away from my face.

I instinctively grab his hands, and he laughs gleefully as I squeeze his bony wrists tightly—but not enough to break them.

"See? _See? _You're _kidding yourself_, Batsy. You can pretend all you like that you're just as normal as everyone else, but believe me, you're _not. _And you never will be."

"You don't even _try_ to hide who you are," I retort, "and the world sees you as an insane monster. How does that make _you _feel?"

Joker's face turns livid for an instant, then smoothes out into a deadly calm. "Don't play the shrink with _me_, Batsy. And I don't give a damn _what _the world sees me as. Call me a dandy, a demon, but I'm _not _de-_ranged_."

"And I'm not crazy either."

"Fine, fine, call yourself whatever you want, but…_nor-mal-cyyy_, it—it just doesn't _suit _you. You're able to meet _me _head-on…almost. No so-called 'normal' person could do that."

"What do you want?" I growl as Joker's fingers move as feebly as worms in my grasp.

"Good question," Joker says, suddenly all innocence again. "Think you're, ah, _patient _enough to wait for the answer?"

I let go of his hands. "Maybe."

"Good. By the way…figured out the punchline yet?"

"No. There's been no time."

"Oh." Joker looks disappointed, his expression a childish pout. "Oh, well. Maybe next time."

"Maybe," I echo as I quickly pull on the rest of my suit. "Next time…of course."

There's always a next time with Joker.


	12. Chapter 12: Bruce

Disclaimer: I don't own _The Dark Knight_, only this plot and the Punchline you've all been waiting for.

**Chapter Twelve: Bruce**

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

_BEEPBEEPBEEPBEEPBEEPBEEP._

It's morning. And that clock needs to die.

_BEEPBEEPBEEP—_

I slam my fist down on the snooze button, making it finally shut up. I sit up in bed and greet the buildings of Gotham outside. They glitter like priceless gems in the morning sunlight.

I activate the intercom.

"Alfred?"

"Yes, Master Bruce?"

"Could you turn on the shower for me?"

"Of course, sir. I'm guessing you had a rough night?"

"…Not as rough as usual." I stretch, welcoming the fluid feel of my movements.

"I'm glad for the change, sir. You're still bloody awful at taking care of yourself."

"I'm working on it."

Alfred chuckles and cancels the connection. I perform my usual 50 push-ups and 50s sit-ups before heading to the bathroom. My body still feels as fluid as it did last night. There's no creaking, straining, or hesitation. Just simple, crisp movement.

In the back of my mind, I feel that this isn't going to be a normal Saturday.

I check "Batman's" cell phone. There's a message from Gordon.

_**we found the men you caught mins. after you left. sorry for not keeping you posted. **_

I type out a reply to the effect of "It's no trouble. What happened?" and wait for a reply.

It arrives quickly: _**they stood trial. prison life is going to be hard on them, now that they're blind.**_

I feel my insides grow cold. I had given Joker's so-called "fish" the medicine they needed to stay alive…but I've learned the hard way that I can't save everyone.

The more important question is: were all of them guilty?

I text my question to Gordon. The reply is simple, almost curious: _**yes, of course.**_

So…Batman goes to catch ten "fishies". They are poisoned. Batman claims half are guilty, the others innocent, and gives each of them the same amount of medicine. He lets Gordon take care of the rest. A few days later…they're _all _found guilty.

Some punchline.

--

I take a shower, check the news, eat breakfast, check the news, read more of _The Big Sleep _by Raymond Chandler, and check the news.

I dress for a quiet Saturday—white-collar shirt and brown pants. Simple, comfortable, and effective.

For a brief moment I wonder what Joker wears on his days off. A Hawaiian shirt unexpectedly comes to mind, and I wince at the mental burst of color.

_He would love that. No need for guns or knives when you can make people crazy from going _colorblind. _What a joke _that _would be…_

"Do you plan on going out, sir?" Alfred asks as he polishes the silverware. His expression is as shrewd as ever, and I find myself grinning at the familiarity of it all.

"Yes, of course."

Alfred raises an eyebrow. "…In the _daylight_, sir?"

I laugh. "Sure, Alfred. Want to come along? It's a nice day."

Alfred glances around the dining room. "Who will guard the house, then?"

"We won't be gone long."

"All right, then. I'll get my coat."

An ominous news report from the other room catches my ear.

"_We just received a recording from the man known as 'The Joker' for the first time in a long time. It appears he has yet another hostage…_"

I rush to the TV, Alfred close behind me.

As soon as the film starts playing, all my worst fears are confirmed.

A man is sitting in a chair in a brightly lit room, his face a bloodied mess—but I can see the tattoo of a skull on his cheek. His hair is the color of clotted blood, but it was blond once. He's wearing what remains of a leather jacket and black t-shirt.

It's the mugger.

"_So. Bud. That's your name, right?_" a familiar voice says cheerily, and I clench my hands into fists.

"_Y-Yeah…_" the mugger replies. He's shaking.

"_Know why you're here, Bud?_" Joker's purple gloved hand sneaks into the camera's vision and patting the mugger on the shoulder companionably. "_Go on, don't be shyyyy…_"

The mugger bites his lip before he speaks. "_No—no, I don't._"

Joker gasps mockingly, and the camera shakes and bounces.

"_No? _No? _Quite the speaker, aren't you?_ _So…_eloquent_. Well, I guess you deserve to know why you're here, at least…_"

Joker's hand clenches the mugger's shoulder tighter, and the mugger groans. I can't look away from the sight. Alfred looks equally disturbed.

"_You're here, Bud, because…this is my little, ah, _gift _to Batman. For all the _joy _he's given me. I can't thank him enough, but…I think you'll do _just _fine._"

The mugger screams in fear and pain as a loud _pop _echoes through the room.

"_You see, Bud, the problem with Gotham is you _think _you've seen everything, and then someone _else _shows up. You got away from the Batman, _somehow_—dumb luck, I'm sure—and now you're here with _me. _Crazy world we live in, huh?_"

"I'm sorry, sir," Alfred says, his voice trembling slightly as the mugger's screams grow louder. "I don't think I can stomach this."

"I can't either," I say, preparing to turn off the TV.

But before I can, the camera instead turns to Joker. His eyes are bright, almost burning the camera in their intensity. His grin is an eerie combination of maliciousness and childish glee.

"_Look, Batsy,_" Joker says, and his voice brings to mind my days as a child showing Father my scribblings. "_I've caught your man! Aren't you _thrilled_? 'Course, I know you're not—not on the outside._"

Joker's expression suddenly turns serious, and the camera shudders almost in response.

"_But that's okay. That's…_perfectly_…okay._"

My body grows cold as he continues:

"_Oh, and Gotham? Don't you worry. I've learned a valuable lesson from last time—you don't have to blow things up to prove your point, no matter how much fun that is. No, all I'm doing things on a…_smaller _scale. But audience participation is…_encouraged."

The camera whips back to focus on the mugger, who is crying silently.

"_Speaking of…tell Batman you're sorry._"

The mugger whines.

"_Aww, now, don't be like _that. _That's just _rude_. Come on. Say it._"

The mugger shies away from Joker's hands. He shakily turns toward the camera.

"_Someone…please…_"

Joker's hand slowly reaches out and touches his cheek, and I can hear what sounds like classical musicin the background.

"_Sssh-sssh-sssh. Don't worry, it's gonna be over soon. Promise. Just take a deep breath, Bud, and—"_

The mugger flinches away from Joker's touch, and there is an audible _slap. _

"_I've only got so much _patience, _Buddy. SAY IT._"

Joker's tone is one I'm too familiar with: the fun is over, and now…

"_Help—Batman—_help, _please!_"

"_Say goodbye to Gotham, Buddy._"

The film is lost to static.


	13. Chapter 13: Joker

Happy Belated Halloween, everyone!

Disclaimer: I don't own _The Dark Knight_, or _The Beach Boys' _"Wouldn't It Be Nice". I do, however, own this plot, and The Plan.

**Chapter Thirteen: Joker**

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Girls aren't the only ones who get ready for their sweethearts.

And hey, it _is _Halloween.

"…_Wouldn't it be nice to live together, in the kind of world where we belong…_" I croon, scrubbing away at my hair and body, trying to get the remains of ol' Bud out.

He was a messy one. Determined, too. And worth. Every. _Scream. _

And contrary to popular belief, _yes, _I shower. Every two days, maybe more if I _really _feel the need—i.e. if I've gotten a bit…_messy. _Of course, in the end it doesn't really _matter._

Besides, I get to pretend _The Beach Boys _are decent listening material.

"…_We could say goodnight and staaaaay togetheeeerrrr…_" I shake my head from side to side, my hair sticking to my cheeks, covering my eyes. "_Oh, wouldn't it be niiiiiiiiice…_"

I dump a sizeable amount of conditioner in my hair, still singing. The water feels so _good_—warm, just the right amount of pressure, almost as nice as rain.

But I don't have much time to relax. I need to prepare.

I rinse my hair and step out of the shower, toweling myself off. My war paint is ready to be applied, as are the…_other_ details.

I thought about dressing up for Halloween like I usually do, but in the end _I'm _the scariest thing in Gotham, so…

Besides, I might be able to get some candy this way. And my nurse outfit is something I only use for…_special _occasions. Ditto for the police uniform. Sure, it's tempting, but my motto is "never do the same joke twice".

Anyway. Time to get ready.

Green hairspray…

I grin at the way my true face is slowly coming into focus. It's a bit of a ritual—I _always _put on the hairspray first. That's how it started, after all.

Check.

Fresh suit…

I take my time getting dressed. I physically, ah, _prepare _myself first for whatever may come my way on this fine, _fine _evening—you never know, y'know?

I stretch my muscles, crack my back, shoulders, and neck, flex my fingers and toes, and lastly give the grimy mirror my best _smile._

Then, and only _then, _comes the suit. Cool cloth—cotton and velvet—on warm skin. Oh, what a feeling.

Check.

Rough-and-Tumble With Batsy Mindset…

He's probably _really _upset with me for what I did. But as I said before, I knew he would be. Sometimes Batsy's a little _too _predictable. Someday, that'll change. Someday he'll do something I don't expect—he'll throw me off guard, make me laugh at something _other _than his stubborn streak.

But at the same time, I like knowing he's…_solid._

Solid but potentially breakable, that's Batsy.

And with my plan…maybe…

We'll see.

I'm good to go.

--

I was right—he's _really _mad this time.

"Hiiiiii, Batsy. You out trick-or-treating too?"

"_Why _did you _do _that?" Batsy growls, his shoulders set, his muscles perfectly _coiled. _He's ready for a fight, a brawl, a murderous onslaught on either end.

"Why _not?_" I grin and bolt away, the cool autumn air chilling my lungs.

I run down the alleyways and streets of Gotham, giggling and jumping over garbage cans, stray cats, and drunk hobos. The wind hits my face, plays with my coat, letting me love my freedom in chaos.

Kids shriek and laugh in the distance, filling their round little bellies with candy and fruit and hopefully even the knowledge that _tricks _are just as fun as _treats. _

I hear Batsy's footsteps behind me, and I move a little faster, grabbing a streetlamp pole and spinning on it once before taking off again. I can't see him properly in the shadows, but I can _sense _him, and that's good enough for me.

"C'mon, Batsy, keep up!" I call, upsetting a homeless guy's slumber. "Stop pouting, it only looks good on _me!_"

And _there _he is—all black Kevlar and ice-cold _rage_, grabbing me by the collar and slamming me against the nearest brick wall. I bite my lip to keep from laughing at the sight of his eyes so filled with rage. The homeless guy's turned tail already—good choice.

"You didn't have to _kill _him," Batsy growls, his jaw clenched tightly. "You didn't even have to go _looking for him. _So _why?_"

I put on my best angelic expression. "I was only trying to _help, _Batsy."

"I don't need any help." He presses me harder against the wall, making me wince. I can feel that old familiar feeling creeping along already…

"Déjà…vu..." I whisper, as his eyes grow ever darker. "Huh, _Brrrrruce?_" I stretch Batsy's so-called "real name" out like elastic, snapping it in his face.

"Shut _up._" Batsy suddenly gets himself under control—on the surface, anyway. "I know what you want—"

"You mean what _we _want," I correct him, reaching out and patting his cheek. "Right now both of us are in no mood to just…let this _slide. _And besides, it's Halloween."

"What does _that _have to do with anything?" Batsy growls, and I can't help but grin.

"Well…I'm in the mood for _tricks and treats_. Not necessarily in that order."

I can feel Batsy's frustration, and I shrug. "'Course, what I did to Buddy was against your precious _One Rule_, so…take your pick."

Batsy's answer is to spin me around and make me lean against the wall, and I admire this suddenly bold move.

There's no gentleness today. No pretense at this being anything other than stress relief. No… pretense at being _human_, though I know in Batsy's mind he _wants _to be normal, the way an alcoholic needs his drink.

He doesn't have to say anything. I can guess. I look over my shoulder at him, waiting. I shake my head, trying to get my hair out of my eyes. Batsy's barely even a shadow—the only things I can see are his eyes, bitter and frustrated.

_Looks like it's gonna be a fun night after—_

"_Trick or treat, trick or treat, give us something good to eat!_" a group of children suddenly carols from behind us. Their little footsteps _click _and _clunk _along as they giggle and chatter amongst themselves.

Well, what do you know? Meddling twerps _do _exist.

Batsy and I stay perfectly still, listening.

"D'you think Batman celebrates Halloween?" a little girl pipes up.

"Nawww, he's too busy fightin' the bad guys," a boy replies confidently.

"What about the Joker? He's probably doing something really scary!" another boy says.

I look behind me to Batsy and let out an exaggerated groan. Batsy hurriedly tries to cover my mouth—but it's too late for that.

"What was that?" the girl whimpers.

"Just the wind," one of the boys answers quickly, though I can tell he's a little frightened too. "C'mon, let's get going."

As soon as the children scramble away, Batman releases me, and I slide to the ground, still _wanting. _He hasn't even taken off his gloves yet.

"Aren't you going to—"

"No. This is your reward for killing that mugger. The next time you use someone's death as leverage, I'm dragging you to Arkham myself."

And now we're right back to square one again.

"But _why?_" Now it's _my _turn to raise my hackles. "Like I said, I'm trying to _help _you. You're holding yourself _back, _Batman—you take things so _seriously_, even when you know this is all a game. You…you think you can win by sticking to those pretentious _rules _of yours, and I've played right along with you, but now you're just being _stupid._"

Batman doesn't say anything: he just turns around and vanishes into the shadows.

I lean back against the wall, trying to relax. _Breathe. Breathe. Look on the bright side: now this gives you even more of a reason to put The Plan in action. _

A thought suddenly strikes me. I push myself off the wall and walk into the middle of the alley, listening.

"Don't tell me this is about the _punchline_, Batsy. Didn't think it was, ah, _clever_ enough?"

"It was _too _clever." Batman's voice growls out from the shadows, making me automatically tense up. "What you would call a 'smart-ass' remark."

I turn in Batman's direction, but I can hear him leaving. "Is _that _why you're so—?"

"No."

"Stop inter_rupting_!" I hate the way my tone comes across as "whiny" instead of "enraged", but then this night is just _full _of surprises, _isn't it?_

"I'm finishing what Harvey started_. _This has nothing to do with you."

I step toward the shadows, try to point out the obvious _lie _he just tried to feed me, but I get the feeling he's gone already.

I sigh. _Well, fine then. Be that way. I'll just have to move The Plan a little…_faster.

The number-one rule of my game: _always _keep things in motion. Even if a wheel just won't… _budge._


	14. Chapter 14: Joker

Due to the next week being nothing short of hectic, this will probably be the last chapter for awhile.

Disclaimer: I don't own _The Dark Knight_, or _The Rocky Horror Picture Show_ and _The Nightmare Before Christmas_. I do own Seymour and Todd, though. And the Prawn Shop.

**Chapter Fourteen: Joker**

* * *

I'm not exactly…_pleased _with how things went with Batsy, but you know what? That's perfectly _fine._

It makes working on Step Three of The Plan that much simpler.

Or at least, part of Step Three. It's a minor detail, but too much fun to pass up.

Adjusting the camera for _just _the right angle, I lean one hand against the wall, keeping me stable, the other undoing my tie. I haven't changed out of my suit—in fact, as soon as I got home I went right up to my room and went to work. What can I say? I'm…_dedicated. _

Besides, I'm still in that, ah, _needy _mood. And a little self-love never hurt anybody.

Much.

I cock my head to one side and close my eyes.

_Click._

One down.

Off comes the tie. I take one of my gloves between my teeth and slowly slide it off my hand, staring at the camera all the while. The familiar feel of cool leather sliding over my knuckles is almost as good as Kevlar. Normally I would have taken my gloves off and _then _my tie, but like I said, tonight's _full _of surprises.

_Click._

I feel like adding a bit of…_burlesque _to the scene. I grin at the camera…with the glove's fingers still between my teeth. Think "animal magnetism".

_Click._

Now for the other glove.

_Click._

Waistcoat time. I turn and lean my back against the wall now, ankles crossed, preparing to loosen the first button. Time for a Batsy-scowl.

_Click._

It's hard to keep that scowl in place, so I decide to be a little hurried and loosen two more buttons.

_Click._

I quickly get rid of the waistcoat and turn toward the wall, taking care of the first few buttons on my shirt. It's blue. I slip one shoulder out and look back toward the camera. I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing.

_Click._

The shirt becomes fully unbuttoned, and I turn back around and walk to the camera. I turn its "gaze" down to the floor, then sprawl out, one hand on my stomach, the other balled into my shirt.

_Click._

The shirt comes off. I adjust the camera again and go back to the wall. I face the wall, hands and arms splayed out, back arched. I can't help but smile at this one—after all, it's a "what-could-have-been" posture…or "what-could-_be_".

_Click._

I hurriedly shut the camera off and take a look at my work…my _foray _into modeling. Only _these _beauties are for Batsy alone.

"Aww, I _blinked_," I complain to no one in particular. I sigh at the second glove picture, which _would _look good if not for the fact that I, ah, look a little _out-of-sorts_. The stupid camera got me in mid-blink.

"Hey, Boss, aren't you coming down?" one of my boys asks from behind the door. "_The Nightmare Before Christmas _is on!"

"Don't _rush_ me, Seymour," I reply, still flipping through the pictures. "I'll be down in a jiffy. Just let me fix things in here."

"But Boss—"

"_Wait, _Seymour."

I grin once I get to the "unbuttoning" pictures. Yes, I think Batsy's gonna _love _these. And if he throws them out, well…

_There's more where that came from. _

"Boss, they're at the part with—"

I grab my shirt, pull it on, and head toward the door.

Now. My boys are great. They're _loyal_, _funny _(I'll never forget The Cellphone Incident)_, _and best of all, they _let me have my space. _My policy is "You get your space, I get _mine_." (Guess whose space is more important).

They respect that—not that they, ah, have any _other _choices.

But sometimes—_sometimes_—there's one guy who just. Doesn't. _Get it._

I open the door to find Seymour—a big, broad-shouldered guy who once-upon-a-time was a _cop_ before stress drove him nuts—standing in front of the door, looking twitchy and anxious as ever. He's balding already—but then, that's to be expected. Looks like he was a fine-haired guy, the kind who never have to comb their hair. It just…_is. _Until he started pulling it out strand by strand.

"_Seymour,_" I say, putting as much _purr _into my voice as possible, "could you, ah, c'mere for a sec?"

Like a good boy, Seymour obeys.

"Seymour. D'you like _Nightmare Before Christmas_?"

"Uh, yeah. Yeah Boss, I do."

"I see. I'm more of a…_Rocky Horror _kind of guy." I cock my head to one side. "…Does Jack Skellington make you, ah, _die laughing_?"

Seymour offers up a whimpy excuse for a smile.

"Well…I guess so."

I return his smile. Of course mine is far more _genuine_.

"Oooh, _good. _Let's go, then. But next time…be a little more _classy _when you call me, won'tcha?"

An idea suddenly strikes me.

"Actually, Seymour, could you be a pal and run an errand for me?"

Seymour's reaction is just as I hoped: "Sure, Boss! Whatever you want!"

"I need you to go down to the Prawn Shop and get some photos printed. Oh, and stick 'em in an envelope and mail them to Bruce Wayne's penthouse. They're _very special_."

"Okay!" Seymour's so _happy_. No questions asked, either. I can't wait until his past mistakes catch up to him.

"Good boy.." I give him a companionable pat on the back. "Now, let's go see what Jack Skellington's up to, hmm?"

--

It turns out that Jack Skellington and friends never get old.

The boys and I laugh and scream at the appropriate moments. I even convince good old Thomas Schiff to sing "What's This?" and "Jack's Lament"—he's the best singer of all my boys. And, to popular demand, I sing "The Oogie Boogie Song", making one poor sap wet himself and the nice carpet in the process.

He'll never make that mistake again.

"Todd, go clean this up," I order, pointing to the corpse on the floor. Todd—a twig of a man—obeys with practiced ease. (He's a survivor). "Seymour, go do that job I told you about."

Seymour nods and scampers off—or as much as a guy like him _can _scamper. I turn off the TV and say goodnight to everyone. I'm ready to turn in. It's been a busy day, after all—and I have to be at my best tomorrow.

Sugarplums don't dance in my head when I dream. No, in _my _dreams clowns ride bats as they fly high, _high _over Gotham, and Batsy _finally _gets The Point, and together we dance in the rubble of the GCPD.


	15. Chapter 15: Bruce

Being sick does _wonders _for your creative state…

Disclaimer: I don't own _The Dark Knight, _or Pasquale's Bistro (it was a part of _The Dark Knight's _viral ad campaign). I do own Bruce's co-worker Jenny, however. Oh, and see if you can spot the _Rocky Horror Picture Show _reference!

**Chapter Fifteen: Bruce**

* * *

The cameras are rolling, flashing, trying to make the dreary morning brighter than it really is.

I smile at the assembled crowd and wait for the questions to continue. There's been a short lull in the questions due to a "witty remark" I made (whether not it actually _was _witty I'm not sure, nor do I care).

"Mr. Wayne, is it true that you're planning to follow in Harvey Dent's footsteps? Will we be seeing your campaign ads sometime soon?" a pretty reporter asks, her cheeks slightly flushed with the cool late autumn air.

"Well, I wouldn't go that far." I let out a short laugh, prompting the crowd to do the same. "I'm using my resources to finish what Harvey started, that's all. I'm going to need Gotham's finest on my side for this—that much is clear."

The group claps approvingly. I suddenly don't want to be around those cameras.

"I hope each and every citizen of Gotham helps me in remembering Harvey Dent and continuing his legacy." I smile again. "I'm sorry, but that's all I have for now. I have to get back to work."

With that I turn around and _finally _enter Wayne Enterprises. The media certainly moved quickly—I only mentioned my plan to take out the mob _my _way an hour ago.

Now I need to think.

I make myself some coffee and flirt with one of my female co-workers, Jenny. She's tall—almost gangly—blonde, and as far as facial structure goes, most people would call her "homely". She's also intelligent and more sensible than most other girls I've met. She reminds me of Rachel—only Rachel was the most beautiful woman I have ever known.

"I'm curious, Mr. Wayne. Have you ever gone to Gotham Pizzaria?" Jenny asks, smiling good-naturedly.

"Not yet," I reply, smiling in return. "Maybe you could introduce me?"

"Sure." Jenny's cheeks become an endearing pink. "Tuesday at eight?"

"Certainly." I'm happy for a change of pace.

As I walk to my office, my secretary hands me a manilla folder.

"It was in your mailbox, Mr. Wayne. It's from a 'Ms. J. Weiss'." She adjusts her glasses, looking at me quizzically. "Do you know this person?"

"I'll take a look at it." I take the package and move a little faster—just in case the package from "Ms. J" happens to have a time bomb attached.

I quickly slam the office door behind me and begin to rip open the mysterious package. There's no return address, of course. Not a good sign. I can't help but hurry, for some reason.

I dump the contents onto my desk…

And stare.

_I can't _believe _him. I just—he—when did—the_ nerve_ of him!_

The glossy pictures of my "nemesis" seem to taunt me as I arrange them into a neat pile. I go through them one by one, trying not to let my mind wander. Maybe he accidentally betrayed his location to me through these pictures…

No such luck. He was careful as always—only a wall and wood floor to go by.

I continue searching nonetheless. I have a feeling that I'm kidding myself, but I push the feeling aside. That would be playing into his hands, after all. (But then I've been playing into his hands for a long time).

Shots that particularly catch my eye are Joker's long fingers slowly sliding out of his gloves, one glove dangling from between his teeth as though he is a dog. I find myself staring at it in fascination, marveling at the smooth gestures the photos display. And those hands…as I've said before, hands like those shouldn't belong to a madman. I'm sure that once upon a time, those hands belonged to someone graceful, but now…

I growl and shove the photos into the trash basket, rubbing my temples. I do _not _have the patience for this.

As if on cue, my cell phone rings, making my headache even more pronounced. I pick it up and check the caller—not Alfred. It's not a coincidence.

"Hello?" I wait for the inevitable.

"_Hiiii, Batsy. Didja get the pictures?_" Joker's voice is far too perky for this early in the morning.

"Yes."

"…_Did you like them? Which ones were your favorites?_" I can hear people chattering in the background—his henchmen?

"No comment."

"_Fine, fine, I'll ask again later. Anyway, time to, ah, get to _business. _I saw you on the morning news a little while ago. So, you're planning on taking out the Mob, eh? Pretty tricky! Think you can handle it in your…ah, more _delicate _alter-ego?_"

"Why not? I've dealt with them before."

"_Oh, sure you have—as _Batman. _Last I heard, when 'Bruce Wayne' tried his hand at fighting the Mob several years ago, he…_failed _spectacularly._"

"I've grown up since then. It'll be different this time."

"_Want my personal opinion?_" Joker doesn't give me time to answer. "_You need someone who has dealt with the Mob before. Mind if I volunteer?_"

"Yes, I _do _mind. In case you haven't noticed, Joker, _I don't trust you_, except when I have no choice."

"_I think this counts, Batsy." _Joker's giggle makes the connection crackle."_Soooo…why don't we have a business meeting, hmm? Just to see how it'll work out. Any good restaurants you know of?_"

"Pasquale's Bistro," I say before realizing I've sealed our deal.

"_Oh, that'll be _fine. _All right, so…we'll meet there for lunch?_" There's a hint of "less discussing, more _doing_" in Joker's voice, a tone I'm steadily growing familiar with.

"Sure. But remember—"

"—_No guns, knives, thugs, hostages, or bank heists going on simul-_tan_-eous-leee, I _know. _Don't worry, I'm taking this…_seriously. _No need to, ah, go _batty _on me._"

"Good. See you then."

I hang up and wonder what the hell I just got myself into.


	16. Chapter 16: Bruce

Before we begin…glad you readers caught the _Rocky Horror_ reference!

And thanks **Karrana **for solving a minor dilemma regarding "Does Joker wear cologne?"! You picked up the option I hadn't thought of! (Great to see you again, by the way)!

Disclaimer: I don't own _The Dark Knight_, Pasquale's Bistro (sadly), or the occasional pop culture references. (I hope to make less of those in the future). I do own this plot.

**Chapter Sixteen: Bruce**

* * *

Pasquale's Bistro isn't as busy as I would have expected.

In fact, aside from Joker, our waiter and myself, I'm pretty sure the only people left are the kitchen staff. Our linen-clad table is the only one being used.

Despite the noticeable lack of customers, the restaurant still has an almost dreamy quality to it—perhaps it's the soft lighting, the soft European love ballads sliding through the speakers above us, or the smell of fresh, well-cooked food.

Joker chuckles and rolls his eyes at the speakers. "Y'know, there are only so many times you can dedicate a love song to '_mio amore'_. Makes you wonder about their, ah, _track record_, doesn't it?"

"Not really." I adjust my (fake) wire-rimmed glasses and rest my hands on the table. "You don't really like romantic things, do you?"

Joker shrugs and adjusts the lapel on his blue plaid shirt. His gray pants make a dull scraping noise as he fidgets in his seat. "It's not really…_my _brand of romance. But you knew that already."

"True. But what I _don't _know is…where are the others? I'm not used to there being so few…_people _here_._ Did you…?"

"Nope. Promise." Joker holds out his little finger, his war paint-less face seemingly serious. "You're looking at a…man of his _word_, here."

I decide not to test that idea. Instead I try to focus on a new topic. "Do you _always _have to have a 'J' in your name?"

Joker nods, then grumbles as his scruffy ponytail begins to unravel. "Force of habit, I guess you could say."

I find myself complimenting him despite myself: "You make a convincing redhead."

In a sense, I _have _to compliment him—it takes my eyes and mind away from those scars, which move like sentient beings when he talks. When he last went without his war paint, I wasn't paying too much attention—I had people to save. _Now_, though, when I have all the time in the world to look him over, I have a front row seat to his "ugly truth", if you will.

"And you make a…_tasty _blond yourself. You a master of disguise too?" The scars wriggle into a brief smirk, then subside.

"Of sorts. I only wish I could say the same about your naming skills."

Joker laughs softly. "Ooooh, _clever_ _boy_."

At my request, Joker is under an alias—Jacob Johnson. For the purposes of this meeting, I'm Brad Steed. (Joker chose it himself). As if names like _that _aren't eye-catchers.

"Think of it this way," Joker whispers as our waiter scurries toward us with menus. "I could've gone with Janet."

"Why didn't you?" I ask, trying not to let my irritation show.

"Well…" Joker grins, and his scars writhe chillingly to accompany the action. "Let's just say there's a certain, ah, _frame-of-mind _I need to _be _in before I can play dress-up. Now just isn't the _time._"

The waiter hurriedly scuttles away, his ears bright red.

"And yet you've been using strictly female aliases." I raise an eyebrow.

"Hey, you _are _Gotham's playboy. Female aliases make things less…_complicated _for you."

"I didn't know you cared." I put as much sarcasm as I can into my voice.

Joker giggles. "Oh, aren't _you _a charmer."

"It's my job."

"You're, ah, pretty _swell _at it then."

"I've had plenty of practice," I say dryly, looking over my menu. "What about you? I've noticed your henchmen are still quite actively supporting your endeavors."

Joker grins and shrugs, and this time I pay the scars less attention. "My boys and I get along okay. _Some_ of 'em even consider me their _father_. Pretty _crazy_, huh?"

"You seem more like a cult leader than a father," I retort, glancing back at the menu.

"And you seem more like a, ah, _wet-behind-the-ears _billionaire than Gotham's _savior. _You _really _need to break out of that…superficial _mold _you've made for yourself."

"And what about you? You see people as either toys or obstacles. Isn't _that _a superficial mold?" I lean forward, and I can smell the scent of his cologne—bubble gum and cherry. "Maybe you should look a little closer at _yourself _before criticizing _me_."

"Right back _at_ _you_, Batsy," Joker says coolly, meeting my stare. "And besides, I've looked at myself long and _hard_, and believe me by this point there's _nothing _I dislike about me. And d'you want to know _why? _Because I've let _all_ the bad stuff…_go._ That's all you have to do. Just smile and step _forward_."

"I already have."

Joker snorts. "No, no, not…at…_all._ If anything, you've stepped _backwards._"

The sound of the waiter clearing his throat brings us back to the moment.

"Are you ready to order?" the waiter asks, a light Italian accent coating his words. There's a slight tremble in his fingers—I still don't trust Joker's "word".

"Sure," Joker says cheerily, drumming his fingers on the table like a tarantula on sugar. "Mind if I order first, Ba—Br—_Brad?_"

Suddenly he's acting like everything couldn't be better, like we're just friends out for lunch. I respond accordingly ("Sure, go ahead") and Joker nods in brief thanks. He clears his throat—as though he's preparing to utter an Oscar acceptance speech instead of his order.

"All _righty_, then! I'll have the _Cal_-a-_mar_-i du Vin and the Pasta Pierre. With a glass of milk. White n' _whole_. With one of those little umbrella things in it."

Joker beams at the waiter, who looks like he'd rather be anywhere but here.

"All-All right. And you, sir?" the waiter turns to me, looking more hopeful.

"I'll just have Lamb Normandy and Pinot Noir." I hope that _my _smile is a little less creepy.

"All right, good choices. I-I'll be back shortly." The waiter is gone before I know it.

Joker and I chat a little more before our meal is served—it takes the waiter a shorter time than usual, which is a plus. Unsurprising, as we're the only customers. Joker even gets the "little umbrella" he wanted. At first we eat in silence, and then eventually we get down to business—like we were _supposed _to.

"So…you're a scheming kinda guy, _Brad. _What's your, ah, _plan of attack?_" Joker swirls the umbrella around in his glass, not breaking eye contact with me.

"So far the plan is simple. I'm going to round them up—"

"Like cattle? I've got some rope handy. You and I could be cowboys!"

"…I don't think so. Let me rephrase that." I clear my throat. "I'm going to have a meeting with the various Mob bosses. Just them and me. Then, we're going to have a man-to-man talk over our plans for Gotham. Then we'll come to an agreement."

Joker raises an eyebrow, a smirk slowly sliding into place. "Uh-_huh._ And _then_ what?"

I shrug. "Then we're done."

I can already _see _the laughter ready to ooze from his throat, so I close my eyes and wait for the inevitable. I've found myself doing that a lot lately.

Sure enough, Joker slaps the table and laughs so obnoxiously I half expect him to turn into a hyena. The waiter seems to have mysteriously disappeared. I don't blame him.

"Oh, you're just too _much_, _Brad!_" Joker runs a hand through his hair, dyed-red curls melting into pale fingers. "You just…think you're going to win the Mob over _that _way?"

"What makes you think I _won't? _Is there some kind of _magic trick _you used?"

That makes Joker laugh even _harder. _He's actually shaking as he slaps the table again, making the dinnerware rattle.

"Oh, you. Just…_you. _I mean, really, who even _thinks _of the Mob in those, ah, _cute _little terms. Man-to-man _talk?_ These men don't _talk_, Batsy. They _kill _and _swindle _and _string you around _like a _puppet. _They do not 'talk'."

I look Joker straight in the eye. No backing down. "I've made them talk before."

Joker waves a hand dismissively. "Oh, sure, with those lovely _fists_. You're going into their territory as a regular guy. A guy who can be shot, stabbed, set on fire…hell, you're pretty enough, maybe they'd even…have you _compensate_."

I can't help but shiver at the look he gives me across the table. "They wouldn't. They _couldn't. _I'd get them first."

"Oh, sure, you _say _that, but you've never actually had it _happen _before." Joker licks his lips thoughtfully, still stirring his milk with that damn umbrella. "But then, I don't doubt you could show 'em what you're made of. _Maaaay_be."

"Do you have another option?" I add a little sarcasm to my tone.

"Oh, you bet. But, ah…" Joker glances around, looking like a caged animal. "It's one of those things you don't talk about in public. _Trade secret_, I guess you could say."

_Now _my curiosity's tweaked. "So what do we do?"

Joker grins and leans closer, whispering in my ear: "It's actually pretty simple. _You _are going to go outside for a smoke. I know, I know, you _don't_, but just run with it. I'll join you in a sec."

I glare at him. "Don't you _dare _kill anyone."

Joker rolls his eyes. "The waiter's _already_ scared of me. He wouldn't…be any _fun_."

"I'm going to check that," I assure him coldly before getting out of my seat.

Joker leans back in his seat, fingers curled around the armrests of the chair, head cocked to one side. His eyes are half-lidded, deceptively drowsy. The tip of his tongue slowly pokes out of his mouth, tracing his scars. His very posture is that of a man who knows what he's doing.

It's somewhat frightening.

"See you outside, Batsy."


	17. Chapter 17: Bruce

You know, learning how tall Heath Ledger and Christian Bale are _really _shouldn't make me so giddy. (Heath = 6'1'', Christian = 6'0''). It's just that _I don't have to skirt around Batman and Joker looking each other in the eye now_, as that's how I had envisioned them.

Disclaimer: I don't own _The Dark Knight_, only this plot.

**Chapter Seventeen: Bruce**

* * *

The crisp November air on my face is a welcome sensation, but it's clearly tempered by the smell of gas and trash. Cars go roaring by, people chatter loudly—and on occasion the scream of someone being mugged can be heard above the noise. Winter is coming, and now people will be even more hectic than usual, a little more desperate. Crime may very well reach new heights.

_This_ is Gotham. _This _is my home.

I make myself look as inconspicuous as possible. It's easy, and a welcome relief. Most of the time, I'm either a boisterous billionaire or a masked vigilante, leaping from the shadows to unleash justice. I need time to be invisible.

Someone taps my shoulder, and I turn around to see Joker standing there, one hand in his pocket, smiling a smile that _would _be considered normal if not for the scars distorting it.

"The waiter showed me a room where we can talk. The joint's gonna be closed soon enough. They're 'sick'. H1N1 makes for a good cover." His eyes flicker with amusement.

"I'll be right with you," I say, stepping back inside the "joint" to make sure our waiter is all right.

Surprisingly, the waiter is safe, though more than a little frazzled. I wave casually at him as Joker walks back inside, still smiling.

"Told you," he says smugly. He clicks his tongue and points one long finger at the waiter before going up the stairs I didn't know were there.

The waiter's ears are still red.

I follow behind Joker, watching as he takes the steps two at a time.

--

The room we've been directed to is simple, but elegant.

Joker all but _leaps _into one of the chairs by the window, gesturing with his hand for me to do sit opposite him. I pick out the chair that's neither close nor far away. My body sinks into the plush velvet cushion.

"See? All it took was that _simple _gesture, and you did just what I wanted." Joker grinned. "Want to know why it worked?"

"I already know how," I reply coldly, resting my hands on my lap. "It's an expected response, from anyone at all. Someone asks you to sit, you sit."

Joker shrugs and props his feet up on the table with loud _clunk_, _clunk _sounds. "Good point. But that doesn't apply to _everyone_, and you _know_ it."

I run my hands through my hair. "Yes, I know. But the Mob is a well-established, 'elite' group of gentlemen with criminal connections. They'll follow polite convention. Even _your_ 'simple gestures'."

"_Ah_-tatatatata," Joker says, cocking his head to one side. "Don't be so _shuuuuuure_!"

The sing-song tone belies an undercurrent of genuine knowledge. I feel as though I'm a student again, learning all that I can about a different class of criminal. _These _are roles we haven't played before.

"Now, the Mob…" Joker makes a gesture with his hands that implies something far more devious than wriggling fingers. "They're _schemers_, just like you. They sit with their pile of green paper and plan how to get _more. _They didn't get to where they are without some sort of…_leverage. _They either killed someone, charmed them, or slept their way to the top. The latter's a bit of a rarity, though, as they consider their, ah, _goods _to be far more valuable than another rung on the ladder."

"Go on," I say, even though I know most of this already.

"_So. _When you meet with them, they'll be cordial on the outside, but on the _inside_…they'll be thinking of ways to, ah, _bump you off. _See, to them, you're just Pretty-boy Billionaire Bruce Wayne, not the _Batman_. In their minds, you're about as intimidating as a toothless _Chou_."

"So what do you propose I do?" I ask, wishing I didn't have to rely on _him _for the answers (and I probably don't).

Joker giggles and leans forward, his fingernails digging into the mahogany table. He's going to leave scratches, I can tell.

"Easy." He licks his lips. "You need to have…a _presence._"

"And how do I acquire this…'presence'?"

"_Well_…" Joker gets up and ambles over to me, his gaze never leaving mine. "Here's how you start. When you walk in, look 'em in the eyes. _All _of them. Show them you're…_serious _about all this. That's the first step."

I feel a shiver crawl up my spine. _He's _certainly serious about this—it's been awhile since I've seen him this intense.

I have the sudden urge to look away—but his cold hand slides around my chin, holds it.

"Look at me. You're _learning_ something."

We stay like that for too long, just staring, not saying anything. Joker's eyes are like dark, endless pits, and in that gaze there's something _indescribable_. Whether it's insanity or something else _entirely_, I have no idea. And I'm not sure I _want _to know.

"Your turn!" Joker giggles and lets go of me, getting back into his seat. "Show me what you've got."

I walk over to the door, close it, try to get my mind back into gear. _Look him in the eyes. Look him in the eyes. Show him I'm serious. _

…_All right._

I open the door and gesture for the Joker to exit, explaining as he responds to my gesture much as I did his that at the meeting the _Mob _would be filing in, not me. I keep eye contact with him, barely blinking as he follows my command.

I hear a knock at the door—or is it the drumming of fingers?

Joker enters, slightly peevish. He grumbles under his breath—but holds my stare.

"Welcome," I say, feeling my voice grow thick with that familiar feeling of power. "I'm sure we're going to have a fine meeting. Please take a seat." I indicate a chair at the far end of the table.

Joker sits at the distant end of the long table. He's looks tense—his shoulders are hunched forward. But suddenly he relaxes and cups his hands over his mouth, calling "_Hellooooo over there!_"

I clear my throat, and Joker is silent.

Suddenly he grins and applauds loudly. "Yes! _Yes!_ I _like _that. You're a fast learner, eh?"

"…Thank you." It feels strange saying that to him.

Joker looks at me thoughtfully. "Y'know, I think if you start off your meeting with the same attitude you just used, it'll be _peachy._"

I feel a rush from my success—a similar feeling from my first night on patrol as Batman. But it's something I hardly want to feel in response to _Joker's _comments.

Joker laughs loudly, and I inwardly flinch. "Lost for words? How very…_flattering._"

"Hardly. We haven't put this to the test yet." I get up and check my watch. It's later than I expected. "If you'll excuse me, I have to go. I'll be out on patrol later, so don't _try _anything."

Joker rolls his eyes and follows me to the door, saying "'Oh, Joker, _thank you _for giving me advice!'" He mocks my growling Batman tone while puffing out his chest.

I glare at him.

"'Oh, it was my _pleasure_, Batsy! Just don't forget to call on me!'" He switches to his normal voice, sliding an arm companionably around my shoulders. "So, Batsy, _are _we business partners?"

I look up at him, feeling something _raw _begin to trickle into my veins. "This is a test run. Nothing more."

Joker smiles. "Figured as much. _Aaaany_way—"

I can't figure out how to react as a long, cold finger pokes my nose.

"—Later, Batsy! And don't worry about the check—_I_ paid this time."

I try to catch him as he bolts out the door, but it's too late—his laughter is already fading away.


	18. Chapter 18: Bruce

Disclaimer: I don't own _The Dark Knight._

**Chapter Eighteen: Bruce**

* * *

Tonight's patrol is a little less _difficult _than it usually is.

So far, I've caught two would-be robbers, asked Gordon about any new leads (there were none), and kept an eye out for Joker's goons. And so far, nothing.

I feel the urge to move, to _act_—I've felt this way since my "lunch date" with Joker. We've never met in broad daylight before, and the conversations we had have been weighing on me. From the "superficial mold" argument to the "serious stare", every gesture, every _word_, has stuck to me like glue.

Just when I think that maybe finally—_finally_—Batman might have a night off, two of Carmine Falcone's men come tearing out of the home of a socialite, guns still drawn, and hop into a chromed car. I'm after them as soon as they rev the engine.

The Tumbler roars down the highway after them, only a few feet behind. They try to pick up speed, but I'm already catching up. Just like I always do.

We turn corners and swerve through lanes, go through the lower levels and disrupt the slow stream of drivers down there, and _finally _the car screeches to a halt. I leap out of the Tumbler, next to the car.

"You never learn, do you?" I wait for the backlash.

Sure enough, one of the men leaps at me, but with a blow to the neck he's finished. The other man tries using a gun, but of course that doesn't do anything either.

Soon I have two more men handcuffed to a streetlight, my job over for the moment.

Someone is clapping loudly out of my sight. I turn around and there's Joker, of course, crossing the street, still clapping and ambling along without a care in the world. The streetlights illuminate him in a strange mixture of yellow and orange, turning him into a pop art painting.

"Well, Batsy, you've still got it!" Joker crows, meeting me at the sidewalk. I have to admit I'm relieved he has his "war paint" back on. "I thought you were, ah, _going soft _on me. Glad to see that's not to case!"

"What do you want _now?_" I growl, stomping back toward the Tumbler.

"Oh, nothing much. I just wanted to see you in action." Joker walks in step with me, hands in his coat pockets and his shoes scuffing the pavement. "Since, y'know, normally I'm not an…_outside observer._ I like seeing what you can do."

I _know_ there's another reason for him being here. His double entendres are almost _subtle _tonight.

"Which _reminds _me…"

His favorite knife appears with a _flick_, ready to go.

Automatically I move backward, guarding my face with my gauntlets as Joker rushes me, his knife scraping against the Kevlar and sometimes even breaking through the ridges in the plates. I feel the familiar sparks of pain—I'm bleeding, but the wounds aren't too deep. Luck, I suppose.

I slam into a nearby street lamp and then he's on me, that knife inches away from my exposed mouth.

He still smells like bubble gum and cherries. The scent is almost cloying.

"We haven't done this in…quite a _while_. Miss it? Hm?" Joker grins and licks his lips. "I'll bet you _do._"

"Get off me," I growl, pushing him back.

"You _really _should choose your words better." Joker looks at the knife and spots the small droplets of blood tarnishing the blade. Running his pink tongue along the blade, the blood vanishes into his dark cave of a mouth. "Mmm…I think you're my, ah, _favorite flavor_, Batsy. Salt n' vinegar."

"Vampirism suits you."

Joker's expression is nothing short of offended. "Batman—_Chiropetra—_"

Sometimes I'm grateful for Joker's long-windedness—it's given me the time I need. I lunge for him, grabbing him by the collar. He just smiles and slips the knife deftly into his coat pocket.

I roll my eyes and slam him into the Tumbler. "If you want to fight—"

"_Want to? _We just _did!_" Joker's eyebrows rise mockingly. "Uh-oh, _some-bodies in-sat-iable_…" he chants, head bobbing from side to side. "A true-blue society batty-_brat_, aren't you _Bru_—"

"Get in the Tumbler. _Now._"

Joker hops in and bounces up and down gleefully as I enter on the opposite side, shutting the lid and revving up the engine. We roar off to the remnants of the Narrows.

There is a moment of awkward, tense silence.

"Y'know…" Joker licks his lips again, and I find my composure slip slightly. "_Before _we started our little, ah, _power struggle_, your dating life was fairly consistent—or as consistent as a guy like you _can _be. One to _six _girls at a time, at parties, movies, charity galas…you've probably been with every girl in Gotham once. But _now_…now you're often seen _alone._" He gives me a look. "Have you been, ah, _squeezing _your _squeezes?_"

I shake my head, clutching the steering wheel.

"Oh. Too bad. It'd make for a fun hour or two. We could tag-team."

"You're sick."

"Call me what you want, I'm _loving _it." Joker looks out the window, watching the streetlights go rushing by. "Hey…does this place look, ah, _familiar _to you?"

"Not really," I lie, stopping the Tumbler under the shadow of two music label companies.

"Liar, liar!" Joker chants in a sing-song tone, leaning easily into my personal space. "_This _is the place where I _knew._"

"Knew _what?_" That sweet scent is distracting.

Joker's disturbed expression would almost be comical if not for the fact that it's clearly _fake. _"What, you don't _remember _the interrogation? Bad, _bad _Batsy!"

"I remember," I say, feeling my voice grow constricted as we instinctively move closer. "All too well."

"_You…complete…_me_…" _whispers the bitter memory.

"Then tell me what you remember," Joker whispers, "about _this _place."

Apparently this is his idea of foreplay. Cut me one moment, pretend to be sentimental the next.

"You were going after Harvey in that truck. I was going after _you._"

"How did you feel?"

I pause and watch Joker's long, slender fingers absently remove his tie. "Angry. At you, for the most part, but at Harvey too."

"Because we weren't playing by your, ah, _precious rules?_" The long fingers toy with my cape, then my shoulder armor.


	19. Chapter 19: Bruce

Disclaimer: I don't own _The Dark Knight._

**Chapter Nineteen: Bruce**

* * *

I pause and watch Joker's long, slender fingers absently remove his tie. "Angry. At you, for the most part, but at Harvey too."

"Because we weren't playing by your, ah, _precious rules?_" The long fingers toy with my cape, then my shoulder armor.

"You could say that." I shrug out of the first plates of Kevlar, getting them out of the way. "It was more because I wasn't sure if you were actually intending to _kill _Harvey, or if you knew it was really me."

Joker grins and slithers out of his waistcoat. "Y'know, you two almost _got _me. Thought I was seeing double there for a bit. But then you kinda…_exploded _in front of me_. Subtle._"

"You're welcome." I unhinge a few more pieces of Kevlar, shivering as those fingers touch my exposed skin, tracing the scars on my chest and stomach, the shallow new wounds. "You were _fixated _on Harvey, which meant I had to hold you at bay."

"Mmm…" Joker's scars graze my cheek, the uneven layers of skin making my cringe inwardly. "If it makes you feel any 'better'…I _wanted _you to catch me."

"I already knew that. What _I _don't understand is what possessed you to stand in _the middle of the road_ _and wait for me to run you over_."

Joker doesn't answer at first, too concerned for his shirt. He watches me move it out of harm's way and relaxes.

"It was a _test_," he hisses as with one hand he steadies himself on the seat. "See, you'd already shown you had _no _problem…tearing through half of Gotham to get to me. _So, _the question _was_: what was your limit? Did you…_have _any?"

I find myself struggling with a warm, lanky body. Our teeth make sharp _clicking _noises, hands clutching arms, forcing them down, shoving them away.

Joker wriggles out of my grasp. "You _went _for me!" His voice rises hysterically, and his red scars blossom into a grin. "No cowardice from you, oh, no, no, _no. _Just _power _coming at me, going sixty, seventy, _eighty!_ I'd never seen anything _like _it."

He visibly calms down, though his eyes are still bright.

"That's when I decided I'd make you my new opponent in the game for Gotham's soul!"

With a flick of my wrists my hands are free, and his laughter scrapes against my ears. I drag my fingers across his chest, watching his smug smile slowly melt.

"All you had to do was…keep _going._" Joker's eyes bore unblinkingly into me, one hand mimicking my gestures.

"_But I didn't do what you wanted, did I_?"

"Hmmm…" Joker bites his lip thoughtfully. "Good question."

The Tumbler seems hot, almost muggy as I take sharp breaths, understanding that I've gained the upper hand tonight. The Tumbler is small, and this is a new experience. We could even be caught _flagrante delicto_—possibly.

"I _thought _about it," I whisper, as Joker's eyes shut tight. "It would have been easy. _Too _easy."

I grit my teeth as nails meet flesh, and the memory of that chase flashes hot before my eyes. I can feel cotton brush against the back of my knees—is he still wearing his socks?

"You're…a _hunter, _aren't you?" Joker asks, and I feel myself tense up. "Just like me. It's no _fun _unless there's something to gain."

"No…" I look down at him, a knight surveying his squire. "I decided that you were more useful alive—both for Gotham and for myself. My One Rule was—and _is_—'too precious to be lost for the cheap thrill of revenge'."

"Like I said," Joker's eyes snap open, and he grins. "You don't _lie _very well."

"I'm…" I put a bit more force behind my words. In my mind, there is a brief flash of Harvey is smiling at me from behind a champagne glass, Rachel at his side.

"Not…"

Joker begins to laugh, his entire body shaking violently. His war paint is beginning to crack at the edges.

"_Lying._"

"Just…k-keep on telling yourself that…!" Joker cranes his head toward me, eyes half-lidded. "No matter…how hard you _try_…you _get it. _You get why…you and I are _here_…and not…out _there._"

"This is for momentary gain, nothing more."

"If you _say _so."

Any chance of retaliation is lost as we move in discordant near-harmony—pain and pleasure.

The leather seats creak in protest. The world spins, goes to white. I wait patiently for it to realign itself, listening to Joker's shallow breathing.

--

I open my eyes to find Joker already dressed, pulling on his gloves. He gives me a self-assured grin as I automatically open up the Tumbler for him, letting the cool night air in.

"Sorry about, ah, making a messof your little _toy_, here."

Joker slips out, feet hitting the pavement with barely a sound. "But y'know, you _did _invite me in."

"I don't want my identity to be involved in this. This is _Batman's _time."

Joker rolls his eyes and leans against the Tumbler, peering in at me. His footing is slightly off-kilter. Looks like someone isn't as unflappable as he'd like to think. Not that I'm any better—my mind feels stuffed with cotton, and my heart is still racing from the rush.

I look over my "battle wounds". The cuts are shallow, easily healed—even the knife wounds. I can't see what my back looks like, obviously—I'll ask Alfred to look.

"No problem. I just like it when you're…_excited _to see me. An adrenaline rush does _wonders _to your mood, as you've noticed. Besides, a little sparring helps keep the old bones from a-creakin'."

I mull over his words, trying to think of a suitable answer through the haze.

But when I turn to reply, my words are cut off by the sound of a trashcan being kicked over in the shadows, disturbing the momentary quiet of a Gotham evening.


	20. Chapter 20: Joker

I was in a pie mood this chapter. Forgive me if I give you the urge to drink hot cocoa, too.

Disclaimer: I own Gotham 89.2, but not "Let It Snow". Betty's House of Pies is from _The Dark Knight_'s viral ad campaign (which I also do not own), while Betty herself is by-and-large my own creation. The Gabbo's/Gobbles are also mine. I own this plot.

**Chapter Twenty: Joker**

* * *

"…_It's 7:30 on December 13__th__, and this is Casey John here on Gotham 89.2…"_

I wake up to the sound of the radio proclaiming winter is _here_, ladies and gents, and I know today's going to be _good_.

"_Better start your holiday shopping _now_, Gotham, before it snows!_"

I get out of bed and dance over to my closet to a tune only _I _can hear (as always). I pull on a blue and black plaid wool shirt, buttoning it quickly. I'm going to need new buttons.

I pull on a pair of boxer-briefs that match my socks, looking at the gathering storm clouds outside. Winter's coming, and fast. It's a good thing the boys and I, ah, _lightened the bank's load _recently. We won't have much time for bank robberies soon—snow slows you down.

It seems to have slowed Batsy down too. That Mob meeting's still in the works—but then, the Mob _is _pretty big, and they've all got their _plans _and their _schedules _and their _stupid time-management tables_…

Idiots. No wonder they're always so grumpy—they don't even have time to _smile._

A cool draft slips through the room.

"Brrr." I rub my hands together and look around the room.

My toes curl in my socks. I can feel goosebumps rising on my body even though I have warm stuff on.

We need to move. _Now._

I mean, the old stripper club is _great _in the summer—I sleep on the extra-wide windowsill with the window open and an old sofa right below so that I don't fall and _break_ something—but in the winter…it's _cold. _And I _hate _the cold—unless, of course, the snow is nice and wet and good for all _sorts _of snow-related chaos. (Takes me back to the old days. Gravel-filled snowball fights, anyone?)

I'll handle the cold for Batsy's sake. Anyway, the point is…we need a new hideout. And winter stuff.

I pull on my warmest pants and get my war paint ready. I can see snowflakes falling already.

It's time to shop.

--

I walk to the garage next to our hideout, where my "carriages" await.

We have a nice collection of _ve_-hi-_cles_ down here—from trucks to my new Bentley. We'll probably be using them later, once I find out where we're going to be staying.

I have two cars, now—both of them, ah, _borrowed_ from two different antique dealers just outside of Gotham. The 1975 Chrysler (green, of course) has been through hell and back in the last year. Let's see…bank robberies, dealing with Batsy, causing property damage…yeah, the Chrysler's been good to me. But all good things must come to an end—the poor thing's falling apart.

The Bentley will take its place when the Chrysler finally croaks. It's creaking—one vowel away from total collapse.

"Don't worry, ol' pal," I reassure the Chrysler, patting it fondly, listening to it creak wearily. "We're going to have one last little joyride before you…_rest._"

I hop in, wait for Seymour to open the garage door (_Brrrr!_) and away…we…_go_.

--

"_Oh the weather outside is frightful…_" I warble, looking around at the pretty little apartment complexes all decked out for Christmas (or Hannukah, if they so choose). "_And the fire is so delightful…_"

But, see, I don't want an _apartment. _I want a _house. _A nice, big place where my boys and I can be comfy when the snow sets in.

I keep driving from street to street, Christmas carols blaring, the car groaning every time I hit the brake. I even have the Gotham Times with me, the "For Sale!" page open and already covered in red X's.

_There _has _to be a place. It's not like there are only _apartments _in this damn city…right?_

It's been about an hour since I started looking. My eyes flick toward Maloney Street, a familiar…_haunt _of mine. I haven't visited that little pie shop in awhile. Maybe they can help me out…

Or I'll just get some nice, warm pie in my belly. Hey, a win-win situation.

--

Betty's House of Pies is a little quiet today. It must be the snow that's falling down oh-so-softly outside…

I can't see how _anyone_ can resist the smell of freshly baked pie, the buttery scent of the crust and aroma of coffee and hot chocolate. There's even an, ah, _undercurrent_ of various fruits and creams and custard and all manner of mouth-watering things.

But maybe it isn't the food so much as the…_hawker _who's the problem.

Betty's sitting behind the counter, smoking a cigarette and looking glum—that's not what you'd expect from a sweet little pie shop owner, huh? Well, that's Gotham for you. Always _full _of surprises.

Her blonde hair is looking a little paler than usual, and if I look hard enough I can see a wrinkle here and there. Like the rest of this city, she's decaying one drag of smoke at a time.

Betty's eyes move toward me, then light up with something that isn't_ quite_ fear, making me grin automatically.

"_Mr. J!_" she cries, standing up and moving around the counter to greet me. "I haven't seen you for _months! _I was afraid you'd forgotten me!"

Her shop was the first place I went to when I came here. Women are talkative by nature, and since this little joint _clearly _had Mob connections…_well. _I was right at home.

I was one of the few people who actually ordered _pies _(everyone else wanted lame _coffee_), and so Betty and I grew to be a little…_closer _than your average customer. That lasted for about a month or two until I finally met Batsy. _Then_, I had to make sure Betty would be as quiet as a mouse about my visits. I didn't have to tell _her _twice. No, she got the point as soon as I handed her three fifties over the counter.

She's a good lady.

I laugh and pat her cheek. "Betty, Betty, Betty _Merton. _How could I forget _you?_ But I don't want to leave any tracks…re_mem_ber?"

Betty nods nervously and smiles. "Of course, Mr. J. You're a valued customer."

"Good girl." I look around the brightly colored, angelic little shop and eye the various Christmas decorations. "Getting into the holiday spirit, are you?"

"Of course, all the better to get customers." Betty scurries back around the counter as I sit down in my favorite seat—the second from the middle, with a good view of the street. "You'd think they'd come flocking, what with this snow."

"Well, you never know, y'know? Anyway…I'd, ah, like two slices of Holiday Eggnog cream pie. And hot chocolate." I grin and cock my head to one side. "Y'see? I'm in a festive mood too!"

"Aren't you always?" Betty disappears into the kitchen briefly before coming back with a mug of steaming hot cocoa. "I haven't seen you down yet."

I nod my thanks and take a sip. Warmth seeps down my throat to my chest. "That's because there's nothing to be down _about._"

Soon, my pie is served, and I dig in hungrily. Nice, big pieces, enough to keep me going all day. There's nothing quite like sweet warm pie and hot chocolate on a snowy day. In a city that's _yours alone. _

Well, I share it with Batsy. It's fun to have a little, ah, _competition_.

"So. Do you know of any places my boys and I could call home? We're…_relocating. _Something with…_style_."

Betty sits back in her chair and thinks it over. I continue eating my pie, feeling the pieces practically melt in my mouth. I'll have to drop Batsy a line—maybe _this _placewould help him lighten up a little.

"I can't think of any vacancies right now…at least, not suiting _your _taste."

I take another sip of cocoa, not blinking. Of course, being a smart girl, Betty gets the point.

"…But you could ask the Gabbo's."

I nearly spit out my drink. "The _Gobbles?_ Do they live next to Goosey Loosey and Foxy Loxy?"

"They're the _Gabbo's. _Mr. Roger Gabbo and Mrs. Sally Gabbo. They're the sort of people who know everything about everybody. They're well-connected."

"Ah-_ha. _Good, good." I finish eating my pie and cocoa and get ready to leave. I check my pocket watch.

Betty smiles, waving goodbye, and I blow her a kiss as I walk out the door.

Such a good girl.

The snow is piling up outside, soft and white like a dusty wedding veil, and I feel a little bit of the holiday spirit coming on.

_Now_…time to find the Gobbles.


	21. Chapter 21: Joker

Disclaimer: I don't own _The Dark Knight_, or Victoria's Secret (thankfully), or Betty Boop. I do own The Gobbles and the Scar Story.

**Chapter Twenty-One: Joker**

* * *

I slam the brakes down in front of house 1439—home of the _Gobbles. _

The house itself is _very _nice—big, Victorian, and just a block away from the nearest tailors. The trees that surround the place are already beginning to turn silver with snow, and the slick Volvo in the street is more white than black.

I slowly step out of the car (wouldn't want to _trip_, now would we?) and make my way toward the pretty house, checking to see if the neighbors are watching.

Good. No one's being…_pesky_.

I tiptoe up the porch steps and admire the wicker chairs arranged in neat rows across the porch. I can't hear anyone inside…maybe they're sleeping? Or, ah, _indisposed? _

Time to find out.

I ring the doorbell and wait patiently. I turn and watch the snow falling silently, covering my tracks. I grab hold of the porch railing and lean out into the snow, feeling the cold seep wetly into my scalp.

"_Aaaah._" I stick my tongue out and catch a few snowflakes while I wait.

They're still not _an-_swer_-iiiiiing_…

I go back to the door and ring the bell again. And again. And—

A surprisingly well-groomed man in a green silk bathrobe opens the door, coffee cup in hand, looking irritated. He's a little older than me. "Who're _you?_"

Me, meet Mr. Gobble. Mr. Gobble, meet your _new best friend._

I give him my most, ah, _winning _smile. "Why, hello there. I'm from the…_Homeless People of Gotham _foundation. Would you be so, _so _kind as to give your house to a good cause?"

"What? We're not interested. Sorry." The man begins to close the door, but I slam my foot in the way. "Hey! What the—?"

"_Thanks for your cooperation, Mr. Gobble,_" I whisper, barging in without a moment's hesitation.

The coffee cup goes flying, spilling coffee everywhere. It smashes against the wall.

The man topples to the ground, and I nudge the door closed with my foot. Lock it.

"_Now,_" I say, crouching down and pulling him up by the collar of his _fancy-schmancy_ robe. "It would help the…_homeless_…if you have me a _tour_ of this place. Let me see if this place is _a_-ppro-_pri_-ate for their, ah, _needs._"

"I—I won't—"

"You won't?" I giggle. "You _won't?_"

"Honey?" a pretty young voice calls from somewhere upstairs. "What's wrong?"

I incline my head toward the noise, smiling as Mr. Gobble turns pale.

"Tell her it's okay. You'll be right up."

Mr. Gobble nods and calls "I-I'll be right up…" He looks at me, eyes wide. "…_Princess."_

I can't help but giggle again as he begins to shake. So much for "I won't"…

"Good boy. _Now _will you show me around?"

Mr. Gobble puts on his game face. "_No. I won't._"

I dig around in my coat pockets until I find what I'm looking for. _Duct tape._ I toss the silver roll up in the air, watching Mr. Gobble's eyes follow it fearfully.

"Well, then," I say, as sweet as the pie I had for breakfast, "looks like I'll have to do it _myself_."

Mr. Gobble is bound and gagged securely, lying flat on his back on the floor.

I slowly take off my shoes and lay them on the welcome mat, hang my coat on the nearby coat rack, making a show of brushing the snow off it.

I begin my tour of what is soon to be _my _place.

The house is full of fancy-schmancy things that fit Mr. Gobble's personality. Soft carpets imported from some exotic place (Peru?), paintings of the Caribbean, all of the newest high-tech gizmos…on and on, from room to room, the Gobble's are…_well-endowed. _I can even see my reflection in the kitchen gear.

"Let's see…heater, check…fireplace—_three_ of 'em—check…" I mutter, checking each detail off the crumpled list in my hand. "Kitchen with well-stocked pantry…_yeah_."

I hunt around for the next items on my list, trying not to, ah, wake the _beautiful dreamer _upstairs…_yet_.

It turns out that there are four bedrooms _on the first floor_, and more upstairs. Each of the bedrooms look built for princes—king-sized beds soft as a baby's skin, downy pillows, warm blankets, huge closets, and on and _on. _The boys are going to be _thrilled. _They haven't had this sort of winter comfort in…well, in _forever. _

"Big bathroom downstairs…check." I open the medicine cabinet and take a look inside. "Shaving cream, check. Aftershave, check."

I pick up the next bottle in the cabinet. What I find is…_odd. _

"Body lotion…?"

I look at the label. _Victoria's Secret_. It's pink, easy on the eyes, and smells like strawberries.

Well, you never know…

I shove the bottle back and finally find three of the more…_important _items.

"First aid kit…check. Hair dye…not _exactly _what I want. Nail clippers…check."

After I've found everything I need on the _first _floor, it's time to check out the second floor, where "Princess Gobble" is waiting.

I quietly creep up the stairs, listening to Princess…_Gobble _(doesn't _quite _roll of them tongue, does it?) move around impatiently in the bed.

And here we are at the _Master Suite. _Guess who's going to have _this_ all to himself.

Once I reach the top, I take a quick look inside the bathroom—and _oh_, is it _swell. _The tub and shower have those, ah, those _claw feet _on them, and everything seems to be made of marble or glass. I can't even see _fingerprints _anywhere.

I open the cabinet—shiny, smooth glass—and take a look around, ready to check things off.

"Another first aid kit…good. More hair stuff…_check_." Looks like Betty told me about the right place. "…_Check._"

I suddenly spy a small package off to one side, near a small, clear bottle. I pick them up and look them over. "_More durable than ever before!"_ the little caption on the black box screams. "_Designed for BOTH your pleasure!_"

I open the black box and dump the things out onto the sink. I find myself staring at a…_surprising _amount of colors in little packets.

I look at the bottle ("_Safe and reliable! Buy one, get one free!_") and give it a good look-over. Then I put all the stuff back where I found them, checking off more items on my list.

Once I'm sure I've gone through the bathrooms, it's time to wake up the Princess.

I tiptoe quietly to the room where Princess is waiting for her "honey". I can hear her pushing sheets away, getting, ah, _impatient _with Mr. Gobble. Looks like _someone _isn't a big fan of…_waiting. _I can relate.

_So_, I slowly open the door, finding myself face-to-face with a blonde bombshell in a little pink…_thing. _Or rather, _two_ pink things: a frilly v-string (how did she put it _on?_) and a strapless bra.

So much for, ah, _subtlety_.

I slam the door shut behind me, knowing full well that Mr. Gobble heard _that _loud and clear.

"G'morning, Princess!" I give her my most dashing smile as she lets out a strangled cry. "Oh, shush-shush-_shush. _Your honeybunch is, ah,_ tied up _at the moment. Be a good little girl and everything'll be _peachy-keen._"

Her eyes are looking a little wet. I move closer and mockingly wipe the tears. "Poor thing. You're not scared of little ol' _me_, hmm?"

"You—you're a murderer…" Princess…_Gobble_ (ouch) whimpers. She sounds like Betty Boop. "Why wouldn't I be sca-wed?"

"Because then _you're_ _no fun._" I look around the room, scoping the place out.

Let's see…there's another big closet, a big bureau (_awwww, _they even share their _clothes_), more plush carpeting (in red, _classy_), and a nice little desk with a state-of-the-art computer just _waiting _to make my…_acquaintance. _

"Okay, Princess," I say cheerily, dragging her toward the computer. "Here's what we're gonna _do_."

I shove her into the spinning chair, giggling as she tries to hold herself steady. I rest my hands on her shoulders, being _nice_, giving her…a _warning. _

"Get on the computer and look up 'flights to Argentina'. You and your, ah, _honey _are going on a little _permanent vacation. _It's a fair trade, right? You guys go be lovey-dovey in the sun for the rest of your lives, while _I _get this house and shovel snow off the walk."

"What? Where will we _whive_?" Princess whines (_Whive?_ _Really?_), her too-pink lips turning into a sickening pout.

"There's a little place by the sea down there—just as, ah, _pretty_ as this place. Warm sand, balmy breeze…"

She looks unsure. "You're wying." (_Wying? _Oh…she means _lying._ Stupid bitch…)

I snort. "Oh, _Princess_, why would I 'wye' to _you? _I mean…_you're _the one with the _house_."

(Well…maybe it's _half_ true. The actual "tropical paradise" is nothing but a beat-up, run-down shack. I should know. I made it that way. In the tropics, that's the way I _like _'em.)

"And there's another bonus to this place. A bit of…_history._" I spin the chair around so that Princess is facing me. "Speaking of which, wanna know how I got these scars? I've seen you looking at them. _Thinking._"

Before I do anything else, I look around the room, picking out pictures on the wall, little knickknacks. Then I lean down, let her get a _good, long look _at mebefore I start my story.

"Y'see, once upon a time, I had a good friend who was a girl—she lived in Argentina with her parents, who were friends with _my _parents. We would visit in the summer. Now, my father thought it would be a great idea if me and this girl got married one day, so he made sure the two of us were never, _ever _separated during those hot days. It was, ah, _fun _to be with her. She made a seashell necklace for me when I was sick one time—for good luck, she said. She made me _smile. _Now, I didn't smile much back then. I was a pretty serious kid, when I wasn't…_playing pretend._"

I take out one of my knives and point it at her, tickling the corner of her trembling mouth.

"_So…_the years went by, and soon, guess what? The girl and I _finally _confessed, and we set the date for the wedding on the spot—we would get married after college! Mom and Dad were so _happy_. _Everyone _was happy. It was great!"

Gobble is shaking, now. Tears are leaking out of her eyes like a broken faucet.

"But just before the wedding…something goes _wrong. _I found out that the girl _loved someone else. _She was going to _elope _with him—and do you wanna know _why_, Princess? _Because he made her laugh._"

I laugh as she tries to look away from me. I must look pretty…_scary _right now.

"So, I went after her, _determined _to prove myself. I brought my Dad's favorite hunting knife with me, just in case—"

"Pwease…don't say any more…" Princess pleads.

"No?" I cock my head to one side, feeling a grin stretch across my face like a disease. "Fine. I'll…_cut to the chase._"

As soon as I say "cut" she begins to _wail._ _Good _for her—she actually _got a joke!_

"Oh, shush-shush-_shush. _Keep doing _that_, and I might _slip_…" To, ah, _emphasize _my point, I jerk my hand to the right, leaving the slightest cut at the right-hand corner of her lips.

Princess Gobble surprises me yet again—she shuts up, but the tears are still messing up her face.


	22. Chapter 22: Joker

Due to my being on befuddling pain meds as of December 18 (I'm getting better, hoorah!), I'm amazed that Joker's personality still prevailed, I think—and that the chapter actually made _sense_. My mind is slowly clearing, and I'm sure this chapter will have less of a "trippy" feel to it. Or maybe it will…?

On the other hand…

I would like to set aside a moment and say _**THANK YOU SO MUCH, YOU WONDERFUL REVIEWERS. **_WERE I NOT BEDRIDDEN AT THE MOMENT, I WOULD BE JUMPING UP AND DOWN WITH GLEE AND CREEPING ALL OF YOU OUT BY LAUGHING MANIACALLY—I'VE BEEN TAKING LESSONS FROM JOKER. THEY WORK WONDERS.

Disclaimer: I don't own _The Dark Knight_, or the various songs/bands mentioned here. 

**Chapter Twenty-Two: Joker**

* * *

"Buh-_bye _now," I call, waving at the couple as they power-walk to their Volvo. "Have a nice _twip!_"

Princess is still crying—I can see Mr. Gobble trying to comfort her as they stumble awkwardly to the car.

I shiver as the cold air blows in through the window, picking up a clump of disturbing, frilly thongs of various colors that lay around the room behind me.

"_Don't you want your_ panties_, Pwincess?_" I scream, laughing as the couple abruptly stop walking and look up at me_. _How _tiny _they look from up here."_Don't wanna get _cold_, do you?_"

Princess looks up at me, her entire body shaking. Uh-oh, somebody's _maaaaad. _

"Weave us _awone_, you _cweep!_" Princess hollers, while Mr. Gobble tries to pull her away.

Hmmm…_that's _weird. I thought she was just playing the "you wouldn't hurt a _baby_, would you?" card before, but it looks like she was _serious. _Whoops.

Oh, well. Too late to feel "sorry" for the "little Princess".

"Look out! _Here_…they…_come_!" I begin tossing handfuls of her panties down to them, cackling as they duck for cover. Mr. Gobble, like a good husband, tries to pick them up as they float down. Princess just _wails _(I wonder if they're British…)_._

"_Adios_, _mi novia y mis amantes!_" I hurl one last handful of "delicates" at them as they drive away. "Have _fun_ in Argentina!"

I pull down the window shade and run my hands through my hair, _shaking _with laughter. I haven't had this much fun since…well, _awhile. _The expression on their _faces_…I wish I had had a camera.

I shake my head and take a deep, _calming _breath. Okay. They're gone. Time to get to work.

I take my cell phone out and call Seymour. After two rings, he picks up, sounding a little…_shivery. _I guess it's colder at the old hideout than I thought.

"Hi, Seymour," I say, wriggling my toes in the soft carpet of my new bedroom. "Get everything ready—we've got a new home."

"_Yes!_" Seymour shouts, and I hold the phone a _little _farther away than before. "_Okay, guys, start packing up—Boss found a place for us!_"

I can hear my boys cheering as I hang up.

--

It'll take three trips (and all of our cars) to drag everything to our new home.

That makes about…three hours, tops. And then _unloading _all the stuff means three hours more.

It'll be 2 p.m. by the time we stop—if we don't have a lunch break. Or if I don't need to teach anyone a, ah, _lesson. _Normally this would be time for me to kill someone with my very favorite_ knife. _But, ah, I don't want to get _stains _anywhere.

Of course, just because it's _hard work _doesn't mean it can't be _fun. _If there's one thing the '80s showed us, it was that back then, _cleaning _was _in. _Especially cleaning with a soundtrack. That's one of the only things I bother to remember from my past.

--

"Thanks, Schiff," I say, putting one of my mix CDs in what _was _the Gobble's high tech sound system. "Would I Lie To You?" by Eurorhythmics makes the entire house _throb_. _Yes. _

We start cleaning out the stuff we won't need—Princess' bras, for example, and old love letters and their honeymoon album (awwww, isn't that _cavity-inducing_?). The beat of the music is infectious, of course—soon we're _all _strutting our stuff, dumping things in the trash with surprising grace. Even Boss Boy, the poor guy who can only say "Boss", is getting into it.

Some of my bigger boys help drag our boxes of stuff upstairs, while I can't help but _smile _when Carrie Underwood's "Cowboy Casanova" comes on. I'm not exactly a country cowboy type, but I grab Schiff by the hand and see what moves he can pull. He's pretty good—he's mostly following me as we do our own rendition of the two-step, moving from room to room.

Suddenly the CD stutters and switches to…_Lady Gaga? _

Oh, well. It's a good beat. Schiff and I open the boxes and start taking stuff out, getting everything in "order". Seymour's special green pillow…Boss Boy's toothbrush…more clothes…

I toss the boys' stuff to them, calling "Pick a room, boys, you'll be sharing 'em!"

Dutifully they do as they're told, toes tapping to the beat. I find myself snapping my fingers, muttering "_Can't read my, can't read my poker faaaace…_" under my breath as the first two of several boxes are cleared out.

The boys are clearly impressed by our new house. Some of them are even touching the flower-patterned wallpaper to make sure it's real. I was _right_—they're _really _excited. I think I've even, ah, _exceeded their expectations. _

Good. That means they'll be even _more_ useful to me when the time comes. I can't help but be a little…_proud _of them, though. They really do trust me—and each other, for the most part. No useless arguing, or stabbing anyone in the back (unless they really, _really _have to). Just efficient _teamwork. _

If only Batsy could see this.

I go up to the master bedroom and go hunting through the closet. Lucky me, Mr. Gobble's clothes fit _perfectly. _A particularly good find is a white, purple and blue argyle sweater—one that doesn't _itch. _I found some nice dark pants, too—not too baggy, not too tight.

I wonder how Batsy buys clothes—or does some _servant _pick them out?

I'll have to ask him tonight. I guess the pseudo-romantic music from the CD is affecting me.

I keep digging through the closet, finding similar warm clothes. Sweaters, mostly—and all argyle, too. Blue, red, black, green, purple—all warm, all stylish, all _mine. _With a Gucci pinstripe suit thrown in for good measure. Not that I, ah, really _need _a new suit.

There's some decent underwear, too. Clearly Mr. Gobble was secure in his, ah, _masculinity_—smiley face boxers here, _Hello Kitty _briefs here (in dark blue, so _very masculine_), and green pinstriped boxer-briefs _there. _Hey, they're warm.

The music downstairs switches to _Phil Collin's _"Sussudio", and the clearing out and moving in continues in _style._

I amble out of the bedroom and call down to my boys "_Got everything done yet?_"

A mish-mash of voices answer me: "Yeah", "No", "Maybe," and "Boss!" and I feel a little _twinge _in my temple. Note to self: remember to keep questions _se-_lec_-tive. _

Looks like I'll have to help out a little bit more.

I check the clock—plenty of time before meeting Batsy. Looks like I'll have something to, ah, _occupy _myself with until then.

I get the feeling that something's…_happening _with Batsy. The city outside is oddly quiet—and not just because of the snow. But that could just be because

We'll see.


	23. Chapter 23: Joker

Happy belated Christmas, everyone, and a Happy New Year!

Disclaimer: I don't own _The Dark Knight. _Rico Falcone is mine, as are the Odessa Twins, but the rest of the Mob belong to DC Comics/_The Dark Knight. _Jack O' Lantern and the bellhop are also mine.

**Chapter Twenty-Three: Joker**

* * *

I know where Batsy's going to be tonight—it's on the news, in bright neon colors.

"_Bruce Wayne is _finally _having his meeting with the Mob! Where the meeting is to be held in unknown, but rest assured, GCN _will _bring you the latest updates…_"

Well, _well. What _do you know? Looks like I was _right_ about things going on in Batsy-land. Or, ah, _Wayne-land_, in this case, I suppose.

"Keep everything runnin', okay Jack?" I say, scratching my gray guard-cat Jack o' Lantern behind the ears one last time before heading out.

Jack purrs in agreement, his underbite not hindering him in the least. His orange eyes shine with the knowledge of mischief in the works.

I let the boys cook dinner for themselves (I already ate) and head outside. It's stopped snowing now, and the ground makes comforting _crunch-crunch-crunch _noises as I walk. I'm nice and warm in my purple jacket and fancy blue sweater and wool pants—yep, I'm dressed to the nines. I mean, might as well _play the part_ along with Batsy, right?

And as for how to _find _the meeting…well, that's easy. Ask for directions.

--

"…Please, _don't! _The Boss didn't _tell _me—"

"And yet…here you _are_, guarding his cash. He at least gave you the address…"

The Sabatino Family goon flounders, his eyes wide as a freshly-sharpened pencil rests casually _right _on his left eyelid.

"…_Right? _And _maybe_, if you tell me, I'll let you go. Actually, no, not _maybe_—_promise._ Hm?"

A lone tear streaks down the goon's cheek, and I know that it won't be long now. It only took half the lowlifes in this joint to find the jackpot. Typical…

"I-It's at the Wayne Foundation building…stuffy-lookin' place! Has a big W on it…you can't miss it!"

"Great!" I say, grinning as I calculate the time. Mustn't arrive late for such a fancy gig.

Oh-_ho_, lucky _me. _Knowing "Bruce Wayne", he wants the Mob stuffed with fine wine and little, ah, _herring snacks_ before laying it on them. I've got time.

The goon lets out a pathetic whine, and I remember he's there. Well…I _did _promise.

I let him keep the pencil. A little…_souvenir_. Whether or not it'll be _useful _to himis a another story.

--

I park outside the Wayne Foundation building, wondering how the paparazzi haven't started swarming the place yet. Maybe they're out of pencils?

Oh, well—more room for me to park.

I walk in, waving to the secretary at the front desk, whispering "_The Meeting_" to her as she stands up, clearly wanting me to stop. But then she nods and gives me directions—_clever_ girl—fifth floor, fourth door on the right.

There's a gun under her desk…and her hand is _this _close from it. Damn. Batsy doesn't take _any _chances. But she is a clever girl, and I'm sure she doesn't _quite _have the guts to use it.

I nod to her. "I'm taking the elevator. I want to be…_punctual._"

I try not to do something, ah, _bad _to the young, freckled bellhop when the elevator _finally _gets moving. I grin as his eyes widen in fear and he tries not to look at my scars. I lean against the shiny metal (bulletproof?) wall, humming to myself as up, up, _up _we go, into paradise or despair?

Either way, _I _don't care. I just want to be _on time. _

After awhile, the bellhop stops trying to look like he _isn't _looking at me and just flat-out _stares. _It's obvious he wants to…well, do _something _with me, but isn't quite sure what yet. Typical.

"Something on my face, kid?" I ask, rocking back and forth on my heels, hands in my pockets.

"Uh…no. It—it's just—I've seen you on the news. And…" The bellhop really _is _young—his voice says it all. A college kid working a night job—or maybe he dropped out. Something like that.

"_And?_" I lean forward slightly, grinning as my pockets make a telling _clink _and _jangle_. "Did the broadcast, ah, catch my _good _side? Hmm?"

Bellhop's gaze flicks to my coat, then back to me. There's…_understanding_ behind those eyes. He knows _exactly _what's in my pockets—and they're not…_fleshy. _Gotcha.

"I think they did a good job," Bellhop says, trying his best to meet my eyes. "You're very, um, intimidating."

"Thanks," I say as the elevator doors finally open. "Looks like you'll get to keep your job after all, _Hopster._"

I step out of the elevator and continue on my way, counting: one…two…three…_four. _I can hear people talking through the sturdy oak door in front of me, though it's muffled. Top secret indeed.

"…For coming. I'm glad you took the time…yes, refreshments will be served…"

I count to three and open the door—no use in waiting, right?

Everyone in the room immediately turns and stares blankly as I smile and nudge the door closed with my foot. I clear my throat, looking around at all the old, familiar _faces. _The Riley Family, the Maroni Family, the Odessa Family, etc.—here they all are, everyone but their ladies and kids, all sitting in their Sunday best listening to…_Batsy._

"Hey, Riley," I say, waving to the redheaded Mob boss opposite me. "How're the kids?"

"_Fine_," Riley says, lilt prominent, while _he _is clearly anything _but _fine_. _

I look around. "Sabatino? Your wife doing good?"

A similar response.

And on and on, until I get a good look at Batsy_._

…Who, of course, looks pretty, ah, _unhappy _with me being here. Scratch that. _Nobody's _happy to see me here. Surprise, surprise.

I take the only empty seat—a spot between the two burly Odessa twins—take off my coat, and rest my hands on the table, looking around, not saying anything. I'm sure everyone's mostly surprised at my, ah, _new look_—I mean, has _anybody _seen me without my trademark clothes? I don't think even _Batsy _has had that honor yet.

I brush a few strands of hair out of my eyes. "Sorry I'm late. I was…_moving house_." I incline my head toward Batsy, smiling as _nicely_ as I can. "You were saying, ah, _Mr. Wayne?_"

Batsy clears his throat and gives me The Look I taught him. He then looks toward the Mob.

"You'll have to excuse me for a moment. I need to…talk this over with our _new arrival._"

"Sure thing," I say, standing up and following him outside. "So, what's on your mind, _Wayne?_" I whisper, grinning from ear to ear.

"_You weren't invited,_" Batsy whispers back, his gaze going from the room where the Mob's still sitting, to me. "I'm not even going to ask how you found out. Get out. _Now._"

"You're going to need _someone _to take your side. C'mon, you honestly think they'll _jump _for the chance to be considered chicken?"

"And you don't _mind _that?" Batsy's hands are already clenching into fists. "I thought you cared about your—"

"—Oh, by the way, _I'm _the one who's really profiting off _whatever _they do. A bankroll's a bankroll."

Batsy sighs and slowly unclenches his fists. "You know what? Fine. Just _promise _me you won't cause any trouble here. Play along, but don't _kill _anyone."

Oh, look. An…_opening_. "You're going to have to…pay me _back_," I say, smiling. "I'll help you here—but with any other meeting with the Mob after this, you're on your _own._"

Batsy looks like he's going to be sick. He'd better not—not while we're dressed _this _fancy.

I tap my chin thoughtfully. "Unless, y'know, something doesn't…go as _planned_ on both our ends."

"I thought you didn't make plans."

I smile and shrug. "Only little ones."

Batsy runs a hand through his hair, looking…_agitated. _"About that 'pay-back'—"

"We'll get there," I assure him. "Let's just get through _this _first, hmm?"

Batsy nods and opens the door, and we go back to our places. I wonder if the Mob heard us—not that it really makes any _difference._

"As I was saying before the _interruption_," Batsy says, his voice colder and more businesslike than I've ever heard, "I believe it's time for we citizens of Gotham to put our city's wellbeing to the front of our interests."

The Mob chuckles and mutters amongst themselves. I stay quiet, listening in. I smirk at the two Twins, who try to ignore me.

"I know that this may seem more than a little foolish. I have to admit that _you men_ control this city more than the mayor himself. At least, that was how things _used _to be."

A smug look creeps onto Batsy's face, and I try my hardest not to ruin the moment by laughing helplessly. I want him to have _fun_, after all. This is _Bruce Wayne's _day in the limelight.

"Now, with these masked vigilantes and the like running around, things are beginning to slip. Eventually, we're _all _going to have to pay for this city's corruption—most likely out of our own pockets. If we don't act now, soon this city will be nothing but a chaotic dump. And we'll be left with nothing."

I raise my hand like a good student. "A chaotic dump sounds fine to _me_."

The Mobsters chuckle and talk amongst themselves again. Thankfully I've _already _deflated their, ah, _precious _egos—money for me, humiliation for _them_.

"You may believe that," Batsy says coolly, not even an edge in his voice, "But try enjoying a chaotic dump where even _you _have nothing to gain."

Everyone goes silent. The entire room seems to get smaller, becoming just another padded cell.

Batsy runs a hand through his hair again—is someone picking up a new, ah, _nervous_ _tic_?—and stares head-on at us, not flinching. I'm impressed—there's _power _in that look, power that I'm sure nobody expected except me.

"If Gotham falls, the economic state will be catastrophic. And not just here in Gotham. Most of us trade internationally. Other countries rely on us for resources—so what happens when we lose everything? _They _lose everything. The world goes into an economic collapse not seen since The Great Depression. And everything we hold dear is history."

None of us say anything. He's…_caught _us, you could say.

"So. You have a choice. You can 'go legit', as you say, and help me turn this city around, _or _you can keep doing what you're doing until everything falls apart."

Batsy leans back in his seat and waits patiently.

Fico Maroni—the guy who took over after Sal's, ah, _accident_—is the first to speak his peace.

"Let me and my associates talk it over…in private. It'll only take a few minutes."

Batsy inclines his pretty head in agreement and stands up, heading for the door. "I'll be right outside."

Fico looks at me, a sneer on his stress-lined face. "Members only, _clown._"

I raise an eyebrow and stand up, putting on my best, ah, _social _face. "Fine. It's not like your choices _matter _anyway. There's only one hand to play here."

I turn and saunter out, following Batsy. The door closes behind me, and the two of us lean on opposite sides of the door—Batsy nice and tall, me slouched.

"I think they want me to…_dissuade _you. Permanently." I chuckle at the idea.

"Do you think they'll agree?"

"Let me tell you, these guys are _weird. _They call you a freak, then they hire you. You do things your way, they _moan _about it. _Then_, they applaud you. Lastly, they sell you out. _Moochers_, the lot of 'em."

Batsy sighs. "So you think they'll just ignore me."

"Oh, _no. _No, they won't ignore _you. _Not after _this. _This playboy mask of yours is…_cracking _a little. Better be careful, or it'll…_break_. Completely."

"I've got things under control."

As soon as the words escape Batsy's mouth, the door opens—I move out of the way—and Rico steps out.

"It's unanimous. We're do things your way, Mr. Wayne…unless, of course, things don't go _smoothly._"

"I'm glad to hear it," Batsy says, a plastic, genial smile on his face. "Would you men care for some refreshments before the meeting ends?"


	24. Chapter 24: Joker

Happy New Year, everyone! May 2010 bring good luck to you all!

Disclaimer: I don't own _The Dark Knight._

**Chapter Twenty-Four: Joker**

* * *

"Y'know," I say, stretching my arms as Batsy and I walk toward our respective cars, "I think that went pretty well. I mean, sure they're probably _lying_—"

"On the contrary," Batsy replies.His expression is as collected as ever, but there's something about the _rest _of him that says something else entirely. "We'll just have to see. They know a certain masked man will be watching them, at least."

We waited until the Mob left the area before taking off. It'd look a bit…_suspicious _otherwise, according to Batsy.

"Do you think the Mob will spread a few rumors about how…_agreeable _you were?" Batsy suddenly looks serious again—and I'm not sure what to make of that.

"Probably." I stuff my hands in my pockets and shrug, shivering as a cool breeze blows past, taking an empty soda can along with it. "We'll do what we have to if things get…a bit _messier _than usual."

Batsy stops and breathes out, a small cloud puffing to life and then…_gone. _

"_Oh,_" I say, laughing at the idea. "The tabloids would eat _that _up."

I look down at Batsy's feet, the way they're moving with less of a soldier's stiffness and more…_strolling. _

"I think somebody's, ah, _pleased_ with himself!" I pat Batsy on the shoulder, taking him off guard. "I _knew _you had it in you!"

"What, being pleased with myself, or delivering a good speech?" Batsy raises an eyebrow, a hint of a good mood flickering in his eyes.

I want to…_memorize _this. It's a rare event—maybe, ah, _end-of-the-world worthy. _

"How about 'all of the above'?" I kick a chunk of muddied ice out of the way, watching it _click-click-crunch _across the icy tar.

Batsy shrugs and keeps walking. "…I need to go to my car."

"I know. So do I."

"…Where are we going to meet, then?"

I grin and look sideways at him. "What, you think I'll, ah, _ruin _your car or something?"

Batsy snorts. "I wouldn't doubt it. No, it's more a question of…_time._"

Interesting.

"_Oh? _Got a date with someone _else_, then?" I wag a condescending finger at him. "_Bad manners_, right there."

"I need to maintain my playboy image. Tough work, but somebody has to do it."

"Why don't you call the date off? I mean, if you think about it, this _is _our night. It's a good time to celebrate!" I grab Batsy by the arm and begin skipping toward his car, dragging him along with me. "C'mon, we'll go the hotel, crank up the music—"

"You want me to go as _Bruce Wayne?_" Batsy growls, trying to pry me loose. "I thought you only wanted Batman!"

"You're my Batsy _whoever _you pretend to be."

_That _seems to have stopped him complaining. It doesn't…_suit _him, complaining.

"Hmm…why don't we meet up later? You go to your, ah, _little date_, and I'll unpack more of my things at my…_new house_. How's that sound?"

"Don't expect me too early," Batsy says, and is that _smugness _I can hear in his voice? "I might get sidetracked."

"We'll see, won't we?" I abruptly spin on my heel and let go of Batsy, sending him slip-sliding, _almost _off balance.

"I hate you," he says, breathing fast. He really _didn't _expect that.

"What, you thought that, ah,_ remark_ of yours wouldn't make me _do _something?"

I laugh and leave him to walk alone to his car. I have to hold myself back from skipping.

It's time for Act I of Part 4 of The Plan.


	25. Chapter 25: Joker

After this chapter, we will be back to our normal updating schedule (i.e. weekends).

Disclaimer: I don't own _The Dark Knight_, or any of the songs mentioned here.

**Chapter Twenty-Five: Joker**

* * *

I arrive at the hotel at midnight on the dot, and as soon as I step inside I know Batsy's just as…_punctual. _

"So, how'd the date go, _Don Juan_?" I ask, as Batsy appears from the shadows, right on cue. He's dressed to impress—50% Kevlar, 50% "Serious Business".

"None of your business."

_Why _did I expect anything different? Oh well. He's here. I'm here. _We're_ here. That's all that matters.

"And here I thought you were _pleased _with your, ah, _rendezvous_…" I shrug off my coat and look sideways at him. "What happened—she ditch you?"

Batsy glares at me as I gently place my bag of goodies on the floor. "Not exactly. She had a bad cough, so I sent her home."

"Hmm." I crack my shoulders and neck and stretch my legs. "_Sure _you did. You just wanted to get _here _on time, didn't you?"

Batsy doesn't answer. I shrug and unzip the bag, taking out a thermos of hot chocolate liqueur that I prepared myself, two crystal glasses and a box of strawberries. I carry the stuff toward the nearby cushy lounge chair—which is _really _getting on in years—and sit down, patting the space beside me.

"How did you know I like strawberries?" Batsy asks, looking uneasy.

I grin. "I have my sources. Sit down. Sorry it's not exactly, ah, _luxurious_, but you'll live, right?"

Batsy's eyes flicker with what I _think _is mild amusement.

I pop open the thermos and pour the two of us some "hot chocolate", handing Batsy a glass. "Think you can handle a bit of, ah, _alcohol _in your blood? You've drunk champagne before, right?"

"I don't drink," Batsy says, but he sits down anyway and takes the cup.

"I thought so." I take out one of my knives and open the box of strawberries, beginning to slice them up. "There's really only a _tiny _bit of liqueur in there."

"Fine. I'll try your damn poison." Batsy takes a sip and rests the cup on his knees.

"Strawberry?" I ask, holding a juicy slice between my fingers.

Batsy nods and takes the slice from me—not _ex-_act-_ly _what I had in mind. We sit quietly, drinking and eating, getting used to each other. After awhile, the only thing left is the sweet tastes on our tongues. There's still plenty of "hot chocolate" left for later.

"Y'know, it's a good thing I always come prepared," I say, breaking the silence as I walk back over to the bag and drag it toward the lounge. "Looks like I was wrong about that radio—some punk stole it, I bet. _Sooooo…_"

I take out a small radio and rest it on the chair, turning it on. _Lucky_—"Stuck In The Middle With You" by Stealer's Wheel starts playing. _Perfect._

"C'mon, let's dance!" I grab Batsy by the hand and pull him up, moving with the beat. Batsy looks very, _very _uncomfortable.

Of course, he _is _still in his Kevlar. Not exactly dancing attire. Oh well.

"_No_," he tells me, sitting back down.

I roll my eyes. "Oh, _c'mon_, Batsy. _Everyone _can dance. People just like to pretend there's a _formula_." I step back from him and move easily. "Just…close your _eyes_…and follow the _beat_."

"_No._" Batsy picks up the thermos and slowly shakes it. "If you're so keen on dancing, _you _do it."

"Okay, then!" I say cheerily, walking around the room, getting into the beat. "Y'know, Batsy, you _really _should relax more. Otherwise…that little wrinkle there between your eyebrows? Yeah. That's gonna be _permanent_ if you're not careful. And we wouldn't want your made-for-gossip mug _this _wrinkly early in the game, right?"

"What do _you _care?" Batsy pours himself another glass of hot chocolate as I spin around, turning his face and the world around us into a long, gooey strip—like chewed up bubblegum.

"When you're stressed, you're not at your _peak._" I shrug and try my hand at the Moonwalk, making sure I don't, ah, _bump into anything_ (i.e. my bag filled with _very _fragile objects) and don't pull a face-plant. "And when _you're _not at your peak, _I'm _not at my peak, because I'm too busy trying to figure out what put you _off_. See?"

Irene Cara's "What A Feeling" comes on, and I pick up the pace. I start _really _strutting my stuff, spinning on my heel and Moonwalking with quick, deliberate steps from wall to wall, my eyes on Batsy the whole time. He's watching me silently, taking "socialite sips" from his glass, one hand on the armrest, practically _lifeless. _

"_When I hear the music…close my eyes, hear the rhythm…what a feeling!_" I warble, squatting and then jumping up, arms outstretched.

"I'm sure," Batsy says dryly, a small smirk on his face.

"Hey, _you're _the party pooper," I retort, deciding "what the hell" and see how far back I can bend. Turns out I can only _just _touch the floor with my fingertips.

Shortly after "What A Feeling", "Makes Me Wonder" by _Maroon 5 _starts up. Another old muse, I guess you could say. I try and give it the, ah, proper _justice_: swinging my hips from side to side, brushing my hair out of my eyes with one hand, while the other hooks into one of my suspender straps.

Batsy is _not _amused. Not that I care right now. I grin and _sway _down to my knees, my eyes still on him. His hands are beginning to clench.

Cue "Disturbia"—the first lines probably fit Batsy's thoughts _very _well. I begin to unbutton my waistcoat from the top down, giggling as Batsy's fists grow white knuckled.

"Don't," he growls as I toss the waistcoat away.

"I was…_hot_," I say innocently, hips still swaying. "What, are you, ah, _reminded _of something?"

"_No._"

"_Oooh,_" I purr, leaning in so that I'm a _little _closer than I was before.

Batsy's hackles go up. _Lovely._

"_Put on your break lights, you're in the city of wonder…ain't gonna play nice, you might just go under…_" I sing along perfectly (of course), my hands on my knees, then on my hips, then on my stomach. "_Better think twice, your train of thought will be altered_…"

And the blue patterned shirt just has to _go_, much to Batsy's obvious, ah, _discomfort._ By the time the song is over, Batsy's still drinking his hot chocolate, with me happily "rocking out" to David Bowie's "Let's Dance"…_shirtless. _

Batsy remarks, his voice a little more, ah, _subdued _than it usually is, "…you're a good dancer."

"Thanks." I grin and click my heels together. "I think a long, _long _time ago, I wanted to be the new Fred Astaire."

"…what happened?"

I shrug and sit down, suddenly wanting to rest. "Good question."

We sit quietly through the lame radio ads, letting it become white noise—the same as the "normal" people. "Society" is just…_static_, really. But nobody seems to _get _that.

After a little while, the music comes back, and the world gets back into _focus._

"Strawberry Swing" by _Coldplay _starts up, and suddenly a strange _thumping_ noise adds to the beat.

I turn and look at Batsy. He's tapping his foot, his eyes glazed over. I want to reach over and snap my fingers in front of his nose, just to see what happens, but as soon as I move he turns and looks at me coldly.

"You like this one, hmm?" I ask, chuckling as Batsy stops tapping and takes another sip of his hot chocolate.

--

After having danced solo for an hour or two with little comment from Batsy (which I'm guessing is a compliment), it's getting late.

"Okay," I say, "It's oh-dark-thirty. Time for bats to go back to their belfry."

"…'kay," drawls Batsy.

I turn to look at him as I pull on my coat and see a strange…and very relaxed _smile _on his face.

His eyes are unfocused. His face is flushed. And if mine eyes do not, ah, _deceive _me, Beer (Liqueur?) Goggles are quite obvious. What makes this even _better _is that he's still in his Kevlar suit—complete with the mask.

Yes, _Batman_, alias _The Dark Knight_, Gotham's _savior_, is absolutely, _drunk. _

Batsy gets to his feet and wobbles, eyes rolling like marbles in his head, and I rush to his rescue and put an arm around his shoulder. Batsy looks at me shakily, as if trying to remember who I am. Then he nods, his eyes still going every which way.

"…_hi,_" Batsy says, limply waving at me.

"Hey yourself, tiger." I grin and help him walk to the Tumbler, shivering as we're blasted by cold winter air. "Looks like I'll have to…_escort _you tonight."

"yeah," Batsy slurs, nodding as I fiddle with the little remote control on his belt, opening up the Tumbler and shoving him in. "_yeah._ you do that."

I fasten Batsy's seatbelt for him and try to figure out exactly _how _this damn thing works. Batsy tries to help ("the _stick thing_, gotta pull the _stick thing_!") but eventually it's _me _who figures out the general stuff like brakes and how to turn and how to blow things up, and _off_…we…_go._

"_wheeeeeee_…" Batsy drones as I zip past corners and street lights, nearly hitting a few people on occasion. Ah, the _Narrows. _Such a lovely place to drive through.

"Wheeeeeee" is _right. _I'm surprised Batsy even let us _have _that rendezvous in here not so long ago. This car is…_special. _But then, Batsy _is _a rich playboy—maybe he even has spares.

…Which just _begs_ the question: _where exactly am I going to put the Tumbler? _I mean, I have _no _idea where Batsy's Belfry _is_, or whatever he calls it, but I _do _know where his penthouse is. And it's not like I can just park it in the _lot _or something…would that mean Batman's visiting _Bruce Wayne?_

"Pssst…_Batsy._" I poke his head, making him turn slowly to look at me. "Where do you put the Tumbler in emergencies?"

Batsy stares at me for a few seconds before replying "…turn left."

I do, knowing that a drunk Batsy does not a reliable GPS make. Surprise, surprise—Batsy has his own _underground network _that connects from the Narrows. I should've known.

As we drive through the tunnel to Batsy's penthouse, bright lights flick on ahead of us, illuminating the white walls and floor, making sure that we don't somehow hit anything. He thought of _everything. _

But then, he _is _Batman…

After awhile, we come to a huge white room—obviously the makeshift parking space. I shut down everything and open the hatch, pulling Batsy out after me. He's still unsteady, so I slip my arm around his shoulder and shuffle over to what I _think _is a nearby elevator.

It is. Batsy really _does _think of everything.

As we pass various floors one by one, Batsy starts talking again. _Really _talking.

"hey…joker? …you're a _coooooool _guy…"

I can't help but giggle as Batsy's…_sociable _tone_. _

"…and yer one helluva dancer…"

"Thanks, Batsy. I'm glad I, ah, kept you _entertained._"

Once we get to the top floor, I have to _drag _Batsy out of the elevator. He's still babbling on without a care. _I _have to try and keep him quiet. Another rare event. My arm is still around his shoulder, and his is shakily trying to pat mine.

He's got one _hell _of a big penthouse. It'll be a miracle if I can even find his _room. _Sure, I found the ball rooms (_plural_), the bathrooms (plural _again_), the kitchen…and no _bedroom. _And Batsy isn't helping.

"…you have _reeeeeeeally _crazy eyes…" Batsy tells me.

"Oh, _good_. I shine them every morning. Where's your bedroom, Batsy?" I whisper, though I'm not quite sure _why. _I mean, it must be _empty _by now, right?

"…almost there…down the next hallway…go _straight_." Batsy's shoulder's shake, and I realize he's _laughing. _"_straight_, get it? _straight!_"

I giggle as we keep walking—maybe _I'm _a little…_crazier _than usual too. Batsy's shoulders keep shaking, and I can't help but con-_gra_-tu-_late _myself. After all, it was _my _drink that made him like this.

One more fragment of his shell…_cracked._

When we reach the bedroom, I take of his mask and dump Batsy onto the bed, watching as he sinks easily into the mattress. He has a drunken smirk on his face as I stand over him, trying to figure out what the _hell _to do _now. _

I walk over to the other side of the bed and sit down, looking out the huge windows at Gotham City in all its early morning glory. I feel the bed shake a little, and hear Batsy roll over onto his side.

I need to get in touch with the boys before they start getting a little…_crazy_ in my absence. I stand up, and hit speed dial on my cell phone. Batsy _tries _to sit, but just flops back down instead.

"…joker…?"

I grin, looking at Batsy's wide stare. "Yeah, Batsy?"

"…'f you weren't a—a _scumbag? _Maybe…"

"Hmm?" I look back toward the bed. "'Maybe' _what_, Batsy?"

My only answer is a soft, rumbling _snore_.


	26. Chapter 26: Bruce

Since I'm not too sure about next weekend's schedule, this may be the last chapter for a week or so.

Disclaimer: I don't own _The Dark Knight._

**Chapter Twenty-Six: Bruce**

* * *

…_Ow. _

The sun hurts my eyes as I slowly sit up, a pounding headache combined with my alarm clock serving as my wakeup call. I can hear Alfred making breakfast, but even the _smell _of crisped-to-perfection bacon and eggs is too much.

I bolt for the bathroom, bending over the toilet, my whole body shaking. Is _this _what hangovers are like? If so, then alcoholics are even more a mystery to me.

I stagger back to the bedroom and collapse face-first onto the bed, wanting nothing more than to go back to sleep.

"Good morning, Master Bruce."

Never mind.

I raise my head and see Alfred standing at the door, breakfast tray in hand. He looks faintly disdainful. "I can imagine the bed will be grateful for your absence, sir."

I look down and realize that I'm still partly in the Batsuit—the shoulder pads are still in place, as are the gauntlets, and most of the leg pieces are still intact—but the rest have been placed on the floor in neat rows. If anything else is off about my appearance, my head hurts too much to care.

I feel my vision blur. "Sorry, Alfred, but I'm not really in the mood for breakfast."

Alfred looks at me shrewdly, and suddenly I'm reminded of my childhood, when Rachel and I constantly tried to ransack the kitchen for sweets. My shoulders actually start to hunch reflexively.

"…I can smell the liqueur on your breath from _here_, sir," Alfred says coldly, pulling up a chair and sitting beside me. "It looks like your night was a little more _extravagant_ than is usual."

"You'd better _believe _it, _Watson_," an all-too-familiar voice replies, as one long tanned arm reaches over and tries to grab at my blueberry muffins. "Hey, breakfast in _bed_. Haven't, ah, been _pampered _like this in awhile."

I very nearly let out an undignified shout as I jerk back, head pressed against the window. Alfred looks slightly ruffled as well—both of his eyebrows are raised, and his posture is frozen. Joker giggles to himself and takes a muffin, chewing away. He isn't wearing a shirt, but he is wearing briefs, if the cotton brushing against my leg is anything to go by.

"I would advise you to get out of Master Bruce's bed, sir," Alfred says, his tone like ice. "We do not tolerate men like you here."

"Ohhh, I, ah, _beg _your pardon, _sir_." Joker smirks and continues to eat. "Hate to break it to you, but 'Master Bruce' here _tolerates _me very well. By the way"—he waves the muffin around, littering crumbs on the expensive sheets—"my _com_-pli-_ments_ to the _chef_."

"You're not supposed to be here," I growl, feeling my headache grow. "…What are you _doing _here, anyway?"

I can vaguely remember watching Joker dance with burlesque grace in front of me, a glimpse of green hair in the glow of city lights, but not much else.

"I brought you home after you drank yourself stupid." Joker shrugs and reaches for the second muffin, but I smack his hand away. He pouts. "And _then_, since we'd been having a pretty good streak of luck, I figured I'd just…_relax._"

I look down at the pile of Kevlar, then at the remains of the Batsuit I'm still wearing. "What happened to _this_, then?"

A flash of glittering brown eyes and blood red lips curled back into a yellow grin flash through my mind.

Alfred clears his throat. "I believe I know the answer to that, sir."

That's when I see the white greasepaint marks and red splotches on my arms and my sides.

"You _filthy_ little—" I start, grabbing Joker by the shoulder and digging in. "How _dare _you take advantage of me in my own _home!_"

Joker's expression is one of bored amusement. "_You're _the detective, Batsy, _you _figure out if I 'took advantage of you'. And be_sides_…" His voice morphs into a purr. "…you _know _the signs of my, ah, _markings_ by now. And _those _aren't _them._"

I sigh and close my eyes. "Now isn't the time, Joker."

"Hey, you _asked._"

"Such vulgar information was not required, _sir._" Alfred's as unflappable as ever.

Joker rolls his eyes. "_God_, you people are _impossible! _What is this, the _Inquisition_? Poor Batsy isn't up to it, Albert."

"It's Alfred."

"Okay, _Alger_!"

I can feel my headache mounting. "Look, you two—"

"Master Bruce requests you leave, sir. I'd suggest you do as he says."

Joker grins and rubs shoulders with me. "Do you _really _want me to leave, Batsy?"

Alfred's eyebrows rise again, and I can see a hint of amusement in his eyes. "A charming nickname, Master Bruce…"

I groan and rub my temples. "Never mind, Alfred. It doesn't matter. Right now, I just need a hangover cure."

"Orange juice," Joker and Alfred reply simultaneously. They both look scornfully at each other as Alfred hands me the glass of juice already on the breakfast tray.

"Thank you," I say, taking a sip. I make sure not to directly state _who _I'm thanking—if looks could kill…

"Hey, Batsy. If you're, ah, not _starving_ or something, mind if I eat a bit more?" Joker asks, still acting friendly with me. "I'll be nice and…_share_, too, if that's what you'd like."

"I'm fine."

"Shall I get the bath ready, sir?" Alfred asks, eager for direction.

"Sure. I'll be in in a second."

"Right then." Alfred inclines his head toward Joker. "And don't you put Master Bruce in even worse shape, Mr…?"

Joker grins. "J. That's _Mr. J, _Al."

"Mr. _J._" A brief flicker of what _looks _like a smile passes across Alfred's face.

Once Alfred leaves, Joker moves closer to the food, letting me get a better look at him.

I've never seen him this way in the sunlight before. He looks as though he's spent many days running around in the sun—his arms in particular are very well-tanned—odd for this time of year. He's lithe, sleek—almost catlike. His chest has the faint line of a scar, as if something sharp (a knife?) scraped across the skin…one of my gauntlet launchers? His stomach seems to have been spared any injuries.

"_Looking_ for something, are you?" Joker looks at me, an amused expression on his face. "I think you'll, ah, find what you're looking for back _here._" He jerks his thumb toward his back.

I lean, looking behind him. There's a tiny pink mark in the middle of his otherwise unmarred back—another scar, possibly even older than the scars on his face. I remember brushing my fingers against it on occasion, thinking of it as nothing more than a blemish.

It looks like…_a knife wound_.

"Funny, huh?" Joker giggles and pops another forkful of eggs into his mouth. "Too bad the guy who made that didn't…_a_-ppre-_ci-_ate the joke."

"…Funny…" I say softly, going back to my original position and taking another sip of juice.

We fall back into silence—save for the sound of Joker chewing and his fork clinking against the plate. I continue looking him over.

"…By the way, what exactly did I _do _last night?"

"Oh, _lots_ of things you'd be ashamed to know about. Like, say, _complimenting _me." Joker rolls his eyes and grins at me. "You're such a charmer when you want to be. If only you could be so chummy…_sober._"

I sigh and drink my juice. "I'm _never _drinking anything you give me again."

Joker pouts. "_Awww, _Batsy, don't be a spoilsport! You had _fun_, right?"

"Whatever 'fun' I had, I can't really remember it."

Joker leans closer to me, his nose nearly rubbing against my cheek. "I can, ah, _reenact _it for you. Just for kicks."

"_No._"

Joker sighs forlornly. "Uh-oh. Looks like I've got a grumpy Bat on my hands."

Alfred taps lightly on the door and steps in, his expression perfectly composed. "Your bath is ready, sir."

"Thank you, Alfred," I say, getting up and heading toward the door.

"You're quite welcome, sir."

I hear the bed creak and turn to look at Joker—he's wearing only a pair of tropical print boxer-briefs. He stretches leisurely, his arms above his head, the sunlight illuminating his scars.

"Soooo…where do _I _go, hmm?" Joker tucks his chin and looks coyly at me. "It's a bit, ah, _rude _to keep a guest waiting on his host in…_your _social circle. Unless…my copy of _Emily Post _de-_ceives_ me."

"Where indeed," I murmur, before turning to Alfred. "Alfred, take him to the parlor. Keep an eye on him."

"Of course, sir."

As I cross the threshold, I hear the _slap_ of bare feet on the floor, and see a blur of green and tan rush by me, screaming "Tag, _Alter_, you're _it!_"

Alfred sighs and takes his time, shaking his head at me as he walks past. "Master Wayne, sometimes I wonder about the company you keep."

I don't feel like commenting.


	27. Chapter 27: Bruce

Disclaimer: I don't own _The Dark Knight. _Only this plot.

**Chapter Twenty-Seven: Bruce**

* * *

My bath is a little shorter and less relaxing than I expected, but at least it wakes up my body and makes sure that my mind is _trying _to work properly.

I lean my head against the beautiful Italian marble and wash myself with honey-scented soap. My movements are robotic as I scrub from my face to my feet. I wash my hair and pay particular attention to the white and red streaks Joker was kind enough to give me during the night. The water is warm, calming, perfect for making me forget about the green-haired "Freak Like Me" in my home.

Soon the water starts to turn cold. I rinse and get out, pulling on a new pair of grey trousers and a white-collared shirt. I don't slick my hair back today—chances are I'll be back in bed soon enough.

I can hear Joker's laughter even as I walk through the halls, growing louder and louder the closer I get. I hope Alfred's handling him—he's never let me down before.

When I enter the parlor—which isn't really a parlor so much as a room filled with a panoramic view of the city and a green couch and sofa—I'm greeted by the sight of Joker sitting comfortably in what I consider _my _sofa, with Alfred sitting on the couch, clearly having just finished the famous Joke He Knows. Apparently it's been passed down the Pennyworth family for generations, and is the ultimate crowd pleaser.

Joker leans his head back and lets out one final burst of laughter, grinning. "Oh, Al, you're a _scream. _It's hard to believe _you're _Batsy's butler."

He looks toward the door and sees me. A grin slithers across his face, making his smudged, half-red scars wriggle in response.

"Hello there, Batsy."

Alfred looks up at me, looking faintly relieved.

"Was the water warm enough, sir?"

"It was fine. Thanks," I assure him, my gaze locking with Joker's interested expression. "And now it's time for our 'guest' to go back to whatever hole he crawled out of. We have work to do."

"But Batsy, I _love _work," Joker purrs, cracking his knuckles for effect. "Especially if it's…_creative. _Like, say, getting rid of a few _speed bumps?_"

"I have an annual Christmas Party to start planning. I won't need your 'help' for that." I tuck my thumbs into my belt loop. "I'll show you to the door."

Joker sighs and scratches the back of his head, his expression a strange mix of irritated and amused. He slowly gets up, his long arms swinging almost lazily before settling into an eerily still position. He looks up at me through green, messy curls, a slow smile on his face.

"Lead the way, Batsy. I'll be…_right _behind you."

"I don't doubt that," I say, squaring my shoulders. "That's why you're going in _front _of me."

"How about side-by-side?"

Alfred has already left the room, I note.

"We won't fit through the door."

Joker's eyebrows rise mockingly, that slow smile still on his face. "And here I thought you wanted me _gone…_"

I sigh and gesture toward the door. "You first. You're going to need your clothes."

Joker pouts and after a tense moment does what I want, scuffing his feet on the rug. We make our way through the halls, Joker's skulking walk soon becoming an easy lope. His "war paint" is smudged and not quite covering everything, making his head a mass of white, black, red and pink splotches.

"Hey, Batsy. Are you, ah, _holding up _okay?" Joker cranes his head to look at me, grinning sardonically. "Y'know…for a guy with a hangover, you're back to your old style pretty fast."

"I do my best." I try to keep him walking, not talking, but I can't help but be a little smug.

When we reach my bedroom, Joker immediately begins picking up his clothes and putting them on, looking at me all the while. It takes my mind a moment to remember vaguely that he changed into different clothes after the Mob meeting, while I was out.

He puts on one sock first, sliding it slowly up his foot to his knee before letting go of it with a _snap. _He then puts on his trousers (black, oddly enough), performing the same sort of routine as the sock. His bare toes curl and uncurl slowly, and I find myself somehow staring at them.

"Something wrong?" Joker asks, his long fingers pulling on his shirt, settling it over his shoulders. Hearts, spades, clubs and diamonds slam into my vision. "Want me to, ah, _speed up _a bit?"

"Just get dressed," I say, turning and looking out the window.

Suddenly a tinny series of high-pitched notes erupts from somewhere nearby. Joker instantly leaps up and begins hunting for the source, expression unreadable despite his hurried movements.

"C'monc'mon_c'mon_, be _patieeeent_…" he whines, eyes flicking to me every so often. His trousers are slipping down around his thighs.

Finally he grabs his coat and digs in the pockets, finding what he's looking for—a cell phone, of course. He turns it on and presses it to his ear, flashing a mocking grin at me as his trousers pool at his knees. He pulls them up grumpily once I don't respond.

"_Hiiiii_. Who's calling?" A grin blossoms on his face. "_Schiff_, hmm? What's going on, old…_friend_? Jack puke on your shoes again?"

There's a series of muffled, short sounds on the other end of the phone—and what sounds like something breaking even from here. Joker gingerly holds the phone away from his ear, looking irritated.

"…You still _there_, Schiff?" Joker slowly presses the phone back to his ear, a small smile on his face that is clearly trying to be reassuring. "Oh, _good. _Is Seymour there? Yeah? Good. Get him over here so I can, ah, get the _point _of all that _noise_."

Joker taps his foot impatiently, growing more irritated by the second. I turn back toward the window, looking out at the snow-covered buildings that seem to be glittering even more than usual in the winter sunlight.

"…Y'know, I don't think I, ah, _heard _you right, Schiff. What do you _mean _you _can't get him_?"

I feel very bad for Schiff. Joker clearly means business. I don't move—I just keep looking out the window, watching a lone pigeon fly past, brown feathers lit by the sunlight.

"Okay, never mind. Just…_hold tight. _Keep 'em busy. I'll be. Right. _There._"

I turn around and find that Joker has turned off his phone, his eyes glittering with undisguised rage. I feel the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.

"Something wrong?" I ask, trying to keep my confident, cool façade.

Joker shrugs and goes back to getting dressed, easily snapping on the black suspenders—a somber color for him. "Oh, the boys're just acting up because I'm not around." He sighs. "_Typical. _I turn my back for _five minutes_, and off they go, stabbing each other in the back and ruining all the nice furniture."

"So what are you going to do?" I ask as Joker puts on his blood-red tie, his smile saying the opposite of what his eyes are conveying. "Since you clearly want your hideout intact…"

"I have my ways." Joker adjusts the lapels of his jacket and rolls his shoulders. "Most of them you've come to…_know_ and _love_, right?"

"Of course not."

Joker giggles and shakes his head, and for a moment the rage is gone. "Repression, thy name is Batsy."

I feel the headache returning already.

Joker shoulders his bag and gives me an incredulous look. "_Well?_"

"Well what?"

"Aren't you gonna show me to the door?" Joker taps his foot impatiently.

"_You _were the one who took his sweet time."

"Geez, finefine_fiiiiine_," Joker grumbles, rolling his eyes and moving closer to me. "I'm off to work, darlin'. Give Daddy J a kiss!" He puckers his lips to emphasize the point.

I grab him by the shoulder and shove him out, letting Alfred take care of the rest.

I need to lie down.

But before I can, Alfred calls over the intercom, while Joker grumbles in the background. "_Master Bruce, I'll need to speak with you after I let 'Mr. J' out._"

I rub my temples. "All right. I'll be in my room."

"_Of course, sir._"


	28. Chapter 28: Bruce

Before we begin this chapter, I would like to have a moment of silence for **Heath Ledger**, who died on this day (January 22, 2008). Without him, the Joker we all know and love would not have existed. He was an incredible actor and a wonderful father. May he rest in peace.

…

Thank you.

Disclaimer: I don't own _The Dark Knight. _Only this plot.

**Chapter Twenty-Eight: Bruce**

* * *

Joker's scent is permeating the sheets even now.

There's the too-sweet smell of his cologne, with an undercurrent of the tang of blood and metal, with an afterthought of greasepaint. It's surrounding me, _lulling _me, almost, and I'm fighting to keep hold of my senses.

It wouldn't be heroic (or sane) to fall asleep to _him _in any way, shape or form_._

As if on cue, Alfred walks in.

"Master Bruce, I need to speak to you about…this _clown._ The Joker."

I try to look Alfred in the eye, but I can't, somehow. "It's nothing."

Alfred sighs and sits down in the chair beside my bed, looking more worried than I've seen him in a long time. "Sir, if I may say so, he's a pretty obvious '_nothing_'_._ I'm not a fool, Master Bruce, though you may have forgotten."

I slowly raise my head from the pillow, shaking my head. "I never thought you were."

Alfred chuckles softly. "You certainly tried your best to keep me in the dark, sir. But the Joker's little…'territorial markings' and the like became more obvious after _this_."

"Then why didn't you speak up?"

"Because, sir, I still wasn't entirely _sure _of anything yet. I had only guesses. Were you fighting with someone or, shall we say, on a _rendezvous_? I had to keep an eye on you, as always. Unfortunately, it took until this morning to put the puzzle together."

"Oh." There's nothing else I can say, really.

"Speaking of puzzles…" Alfred takes a scrap of paper out of his pocket. "'Mr. J' wanted me to give this to you."

I take the paper and unfold it, staring at the nearly incomprehensible writing in purple crayon:

_**You OWE me! I'll be back next time I need a good breakfast. **_

_**Lots of laughs, **_

_**J **_

A red lipstick print covers the bottom of the paper, mocking me.

"Disgusting." I put the paper on my nightstand, running a hand through my hair. "He never quits…"

"Shall I throw it out, sir?"

I look at the paper again and shake my head. "No. I'll get rid of it later."

Alfred gives me a look. "I see."

There is a somber feeling in my chest. "Do you…disapprove with my actions?"

Alfred chuckles again. "Master Bruce, I've seen many things in my time—some of which you've probably only heard of from newspaper clippings. _What _you're doing isn't the problem, it's _who _you're doing it _with._"

I wet my lips and wait for him to continue, feeling more like a child than ever.

"You see, Master Bruce, a man like him only considers you useful for one thing: satisfying _his_ needs. One day, he'll leave and never come back, looking for someone _else _to satisfy him. Or perhaps you'll both go too far, and find yourselves in a hole neither of you can crawl out of."

"I'm starting to understand him, though. Trust me. I think he's starting to cave in."

"Apparently you are too, since he's quite…_familiar _with your so-called 'alter-ego'."

I sigh and cover my face with my hand. "I don't know how it happened, Alfred. But now that he knows who I am…"

"When _did _he find out, sir?"

"In late September or so. Maybe early October."

"Do you want to continue the…'relationship'?"

"After what happened last night, Alfred? Probably not."

"'Probably' is not 'certainly', Master Bruce. Think before you act."

I lift my hand from my face, watching the sun illuminate the tips of my fingers.

"The problem with Joker is _he_ acts before _you_ think. He can be talking about the weather, or complimenting you on your perfect timing, and then he'll…" I cut myself off, suddenly feeling uncomfortable.

"I understand, sir."

I smile briefly at Alfred. "Thanks. Anyway, I'll think about what I want. In the meantime, we have a party to plan."

"I would suggest sleeping instead, sir. You're still a little…green around the gills."

I sigh. "All right, I suppose. I'll leave it to you."

"Very well, sir. I'll be back with more orange juice soon. Call if you need me." Alfred prepares to stand up.

"Alfred?"

"Yes, Master Bruce?"

"Have you given up on me?"

Alfred smiles. He understands.

"Never."

I nod gratefully and close my eyes.

"Oh, and Alfred?"

"Yes, Master Bruce?"

"We're going to need to clean these sheets sometime soon."

"I was just about to suggest that, sir."

--

_I'm back in the Narrows again._

_Mother and Father are lying lifeless on the ground, and I'm sitting there, still trying to figure out what happened. I can't breathe, I'm so scared—_

_Something's walking toward me. I can hear it's feet making sharp, heavy _thuds _on the pavement, and the swish of a coat._

_The Something comes into focus, and I see that it's a _clown_. A scarred, wild clown with dark eyes and odd green hair._

_He crouches down next to me, lifting my tiny child-hand with his long fingers, lifting it to his lips. I feel warmth on my fingertips as his lips pass over them, one by one, a smile growing on his red, red lips. With each touch, I can feel myself becoming a boy no longer…_

_The warmth is on my lips now, as his hand runs through my hair possessively, _familiarly_. My heart's going to burst, I think…_

_The clown pulls away and takes me by the hand, pulling me up._

"_Now you're _free_!" he says. _

_Like a bat dropping from the roof of the cave to take flight, I spread my wings._


	29. Chapter 29: Joker

Disclaimer: I don't own _The Dark Knight. _I do own the "plants".

**Chapter Twenty-Nine: Joker**

* * *

I walk into the house and find myself facing a _rumpus_—one not caused by _me._

The rug's rumpled, and little speckles of blood cover the floor and even the walls. A few knife scratches line the wallpaper, but thankfully not _too _deep. 

My boys are sprawled out or sitting in clumps, covered in blood and sweat and tears, and not even realizing that their "Daddy" is home. And is _very, very _unhappy with them.

"_Ahem_," I say coldly, shaking the snow off my coat and tossing it to one side. "Well, boys, what'd I miss?"

"_Boss!_" my boys scream almost in unison as they scramble to their feet. Good to see they've still got ears.

Schiff pops up out of nowhere and grabs my sleeve, tugging me toward the next room. "We _got _'em, Boss! Look!" he says, eyes wild with excitement, giddy with adrenaline.

His brown hair is a fluffy mess, and his green sweater is covered in wrinkles. Looks like my…_puppy _bit a few _ankles _while I was gone.

"Got _who_, exactly?" I ask, as Schiff abruptly lets go of my arm and—like a guy after my own heart—gives a grand flourish in the direction of_ who_ it is he means.

A group of, ah, _roughed-up _guys are sitting in the middle of the parlor, trussed up like a Christmas turkey, staring at me in fear. Seymour is standing beside them, sweaty and equally worse for wear, juggling what looks like…_police badges_. He tosses one to Jack for him to gnaw on.

Oh, my, my, _my. _

"They're _plants_, Boss." Seymour tosses the badges to me, and I catch them without hesitation. "Some of Gordon's guys, we think. Something like that. They're new on the block—we noticed 'em."

"_Ob_vious_ly_." I lick my scars, crouching down beside the nearest "plant". "Thought that while the cat was away, you mousies would play, _hmmm?_"

The man _spits at me. _A bloody glob lands on my face, and I slowly wipe it away. I watch the look on the man's face turn from defiance to something…_better. _

"_Bad_ cop," I say, taking out my potato peeler. I haven't used it in awhile. It must be getting _lonely_, y'know? "Bad, _bad _cop."

Schiff giggles nervously behind me, muttering "bad cop" to himself as I force the man's mouth open with my fingers, peeler at the ready.

"Seymour, get me some, ah, _plastic wrap._ This could get a little…_messy._"

Soon enough, with a series of agonizing _screams _and drooling _blood_, he's unable to spit on me. And he won't spit on anyone_. _Ever. _Again._

I let the man cry, blood drooling from his lips as I turn to the others. They're staring soundlessly at me, fear _really _growing in their eyes. All that police training's starting to fade away already. You'd think that Gordon would pick people a bit more, ah, _competent. _

But no. He _believes _too easily—that's _his _problem.

"_So_." I grin at them, swishing the peeler around. "What're we gonna _do _with these potted plants, Schiff?"

Schiff looks down at the floor, a rosy _pink _blossoming on his cheeks at being asked his opinion. "I don't know, Boss."

His face may _look_ angelic, but there's a monster in his eyes that wants blood. Or at least, his _current _monster—he's had an assortment in his "career". There's a _reason_ why Schiff's one of my "oldest" boys.

"Maybe…" Schiff starts, his eyes flicking from me to the floor. "_Smiles?_"

I nod, rubbing my chin. "Sounds good." I look at Seymour. "What about _you_, Seymour? Schiff wants me to make them smile. What do _you _think we should do?"

Seymour shrugs. "Whatever you want, Boss."

I giggle and clap Seymour on the back. "'Atta boy! You two have never let me down!" Of course, that doesn't mean they _won't _ever let me down. And when they _do_…

But now just isn't the _time _and _place _for thoughts like that. _Sooo…_

"So, _smiles _all around…in _whatever way I want_." I give a grandiose gesture toward the "plants", watching the sweat slide down their faces. "Looks like it's your, ah, _lucky day_."

And oh, is it _ever._

"Schiff?" I point toward the kitchen. "Our plants need…_watering_."

Schiff can't help giggling as he goes to work. I tap the peeler against my wrist, watching the lovely red blood slide down my arm, dripping onto it's owner, who seems to be, ah, _losing_ the battle against his bladder. I lift him up by the collar, pressing the peeler against the corner of his lips.

Time to repay Schiff for a job well done. In fact, time to repay _all _my boys.

Sometimes, faith needs to be…_rewarded. _

--

"…_Awwww,_ look!" I pout as the last "plant" falls over, eyes rolled back in his head. "_He _couldn't handle his water either!"

Of course, when you're bleeding from your mouth and have a filled-to-the-brim water bottle shoved between your teeth, you can't really hold _anything._

My boys laugh and clap like good little children, clearly glad to see me back. Seymour drags the "plants" out the door, using the bloodied plastic wrap. I bow and refuse cheers for an "encore", telling them "I'll be here all week" and so on. I can see a light in their eyes as they appreciate my, ah, _unique _brand of humor.

That's a good sign.

"Okay, boys," I say after the "plants" are all taken care of. "I've got another 'playdate' for us. Or I will soon—as soon as Wayne gives out the date to his…_Christmas bash._"

The boys cheer again, laughing gleefully at the idea.

Batsy _really _shouldn't have been so…_mean _this morning. He practically, ah, _offered himself _to me. "Christmas Party", _right. _Yeah, Batsy, go get your _holly-jollies_…

As the boysgo about their favorite pastime, harassing pedestrians, I do something a little more…_charitable. _It's my, ah, _duty_. It's clear as the scowl on his face that for a man of wealth, Batsy is _definitely_ not getting into the holiday spirit. I can tell that already. _Soooo…_why not give him a few, ah, _gifts _to lighten him up?

And I know _just _the place.


	30. Chapter 30: Joker

Disclaimer: I don't own _The Dark Knight. _I do own Damien and the shop _Venus _(a unique name, I know).

**Chapter Thirty: Joker**

* * *

A little place called Venus knows me _very _well by now. As soon as I walk in, the clerk in black leather—Damien—greets me with a smile. His black hair is slicked to one side, curling up at the ends—another new 'do.

The red-tinted lights give the whole place a "no-puritans-allowed" feel, and the various toys that are _really _not for the kiddies reinforce this fact.

I can see another worker walking around in the back isles, carrying condom packages and sleek, sensually shaped items, whistling some kind of pop hit as she works. Personally, I'm surprised that this place isn't _flooded _with couples—Venus is not _one _of the best "Adult Stores" in Gotham, it isthe _best_ "Adult Store" in Gotham.

"Hello, Mr. J!" He leans his bracelet-adorned arms on the glass counter. "Haven't seen _you _in awhile."

"Your ol' Uncle Moneybags has arrived!" I say, bowing with a flourish. "And don't worry, I'll be, ah, _filling your pockets _soon enough."

Damien's blue-grey eyes shine with cold delight. "As always, I'm at your service."

Damien, like Betty from the pie shop, is another old "friend"—a guy who, if you pay him right, can assist you in _more_ ways than one. Over the counter, he helps couples. _Under _the counter, he has items that can _break off_ the honeymoon—his own special brand of _chemistry. _Some of which I hear come from a certain _ex-_doctor by the name of Jonathan Crane.

Hey, when business is slow…

Back when I first started business in Gotham—after I had used some of Damien's chemistry on the _then_-Commissioner Loeb—Damien got a little…_edgy _about having me as a customer. And he tried to, ah, _do away _with me. We had a bit of a _falling out_, and…

Well, his fingers never _did _heal up properly. And for a while there, he was wheelchair bound.

Now he's a _great _pal.

"So, what can I do for you, Mr. J?"

"Well…" I drum my fingers on the counter. "I'm looking for…something a little _fancy._ And a little…_sensual_."

"Is it for you or for a partner?"

I have to think about _that. _"Both of us, I guess."

Damien looks around the store thoughtfully. "Do you have anything in mind?"

"Something with a bit more…_sensation_. More of an _entrée_ than a main course."

Damien smiles. "I know just what you need. Be right back."

And off he goes into the isles, while I take a look at what the counter has to offer. Nothing much, really—a pair of fluffy handcuffs or stuff for a bachelorette party, but nothing _useful_. (I have a collection of handcuffs from my previous stays at Gotham's police station).

As quickly as he vanished, Damien's back (has _Batsy _been visiting here too, offering free lessons or something?), carrying two large, circular bottles in his hand. They aren't glass, thankfully—glass doesn't…_work _well for me. One is brown, the other pink.

"Let me _guess,_" I say, grinning as I take one of the bottles and look it over. "Body paints?"

"Exactly." Damien hands me the other bottle, letting me check the ingredients out of curiosity. "Chocolate and strawberry. The design of the bottles is old-fashioned, resembling hand-blown glass."

"How much?"

"For you?" Damien's smile is a _little _forced. "Fifty dollars. Each."

"Good choice, Damien." I take the bottles and place them on the counter. Trying to sound absentminded, I add "Oh, and…do you have any small, ah, _riding crops_ available?"

_Silly _me—I lost the last one after a particularly, ah, _entertaining_ lesson in manners. I'm pretty sure it was for _me_, but then since when do _I _bother minding my P's and Q's? One moment, it was in my bag of goodies, the next—_gone. _

Maybe Batsy wanted to play with it a while longer…?

Oh well. The _point _is…we need a new riding crop. _Just _in case.

Damien, of course, doesn't even bat an eyelash. He's used to my "requests" by now. One moment he's gone—the next, he's back with _just _what I'm looking for.

Y'know, _ideally _Batsy would be around to help out with this. I mean, it's not like I'm a _mind-reader _or something—though I come close with him. Looks like I'll have to handle this oh-so-_difficult _job all by my lonesome.

I bend the crop easily with one hand, feeling the handle with the other. I tap it against my palm, swish it around, listening to the light _whoosh _and _crack. _

It's…not _exactly _what I want.

Damien brings me another. I imagine that Batsy's standing in front of me, waiting silently, his back to me.

_Whoosh._

_Crack._

Nope. Again.

Damien hands me another crop—_awwwww,_ it's got a _heart _on it, how _vomit-worthy._

_Whoosh._

_Crack._

Nope. Again.

Ah, now _this _ismore like it—simple, identical to a real riding crop, and…_hopefully _effective.

I try slapping the crop against my thigh.

_Smack._

Hmmm. Not bad. Now for "Batsy"…

_Whoosh._

_Crack._

…And _there _we go. Just _right_. I hand it to Damien, who yet again shows how useful he is by saying—guess what? It's _on sale._

_What _a guy.

--

When I get home—after a nice day, ah, _out on the town_—I put all the new goodies to one side and break out my sewing kit.

I still have the fabric I bought a few months ago. I start snipping and sewing and humming to myself, wriggling my toes in the alpaca-fur rug underneath my desk. I _love _this house more and more every second.

Apparently, so does Jack. He rubs up against my knee and hops onto my lap, getting comfy. I scratch behind his ears and he purrs happily.

"Think Batsy'll like these things, Jack?" I gesture to the bags and the sewing in front of me.

Jack blinks his huge, orange eyes at me and chirps.

"Thought so." I let Jack get comfortable as I keep working.

Hopefully, I'll be able to get _this_ present done _in time_. After all, it's _coooooold _out there this time of year. And who knows? Maybe Batsy looks good in more colors than black.

Not that black's a _bad _color on him, of course…I mean, those _suits…_

I drop the needle and loosen my tie, giggling to myself. Batsy's got me _batty_, it seems.

I look out the window, and instead of seeing _just _the pretty, pretty city, I see…_smoke. _Coming from the place between the Uptown part of Gotham and the Narrows. I squint a little, trying to figure out _what _exactly is on fire—and whether or not I can help, ah, _fan the flames. _

As if reading my mind, Jack hops off my lap and pads over to the window, head cocked to one side.

I get up, trying to get a better view.

Y'know what? Forget it. I'm going to get a closer look. The present can wait.


	31. Chapter 31: Bruce

Disclaimer: I don't own _The Dark Knight._ Only this plot.

**Chapter Thirty-One: Bruce**

* * *

Gasoline.

It's a favorite of people who don't want certain things to be discovered. Arsonists have a love affair with it. And everyone else just needs it for their car.

I wonder what category I fall under tonight?

I drop the containers of gas by the rundown hotel—the place where I've been committing the same mistake over and over again for the past two years or so—and make sure the Tumbler is in a secure hiding place, but easy to reach.

I look over the building—the dusty windows, the torn drapes, the creaking door, the shadows that seem to crawl all around the place.

Memories haunt this place. Memories I want _gone. _

With that in mind, I dump gasoline on the interior and exterior and light a match.

I stand back and watch as the flames lick the door, the windows, the seat he and I sat in only last night, "celebrating" the successful Mob meeting. The flames rise higher—now they're probably destroying the stairs, the rooms we defiled with our very presence.

Soon it'll all be gone. Good.

Just as the smoke begins to become more obvious, I take my leave. I don't want to be found here.

--

While Gordon and his men investigate the fire, I double-check the Mob's progress in "going straight".

So far, everyone seems to be following the rules—no death threats even from inside their many opulent houses, less drug trafficking (it'll get better in time), no meaningless violence.

It seems that for once, things are going well—but I shouldn't hold my breath. This _is_ Gotham.

I jump down from my perch on the roof of a drug trafficking den and head back to the Tumbler. Now, I can _finally _have a night off. I can have dinner with Alfred, catch up on _Pride and Prejudice_, watch the news…

"Having an easy night, _hmmm? _Thought you'd, ah, take up _arson _on the side?"

I barely glance at Joker, who's leaning against the Tumbler, arms folded over his chest. There is more than irritation showing in his eyes.

"It had to be done."

"_Oh? _Y'know, if you didn't _like _the place, you should've _said _so. There's plenty of places to pick." Joker steps back from the Tumbler, moving toward me. "And I know you're still all _grumpy _about what happened last night, but _you _drank the hot chocolate."

"And you _brought _the drink." I shake my head, trying to clear it. "I don't have to deal with this. Go away."

Joker walks toward me, expressionless. "_You_ want _me_ to 'go away'? _Me?_" He giggles, almost looking nervous as he takes out his favorite knife. "_Me_, Batsy?"

"Yes, _you. _You're _ruining _me." I turn away, ready to open the Tumbler. "If this continues, I won't be able to keep Batman a secret."

"What, this whole sha-bang is a _secret?_ GCPD must be _smokin' _something."

I don't say anything.

"If it was something I _said_, well…I _said _it. You'll live."

I don't move.

"Oh, and by the way, this, ah, this _silent treatment_? It's a _liiiiiittle _bit…re-_dun_-dant. I mean, you're normally the so-called 'Strong-and-Silent-Type' anyway, so…"

There is silence. I tense up, ready for him.

"Joker. I'm not playing your games any more. I won't take the bait."

Suddenly something lanky and surprisingly _heavy _smashes into me, knocking me to the ground. Joker sits on top of me, his knife close at hand, his lips curled back into a yellow snarl.

"_You_," Joker growls, his breath smelling like grape soda, "are _lying._"

"No, I'm not," I retort, despite having his knife so near my face. "Get off me."

"Of course not."

"Get _off_, I said—"

"We've got _work _to do!"

"You think _I'm _lying, Joker? _You're _the real liar. Look at you—when you don't get your way, you use force—"

"—Because that's what gets you _hot n' bothered_, Batsy—"

"No. You use force _to get your way_. There are other ways."

Joker sits there quietly, his legs on either side of my stomach, knife poised. He doesn't say anything, just stares at me. I reach up and grab his shoulder, pushing him off me with surprising ease. I get to my feet. But as soon as I do, Joker lunges at me again, eyes wild.

I find myself hitting him over and over, and the two of us are soon fighting tooth and nail—it was bound to happen. We slam into the alley walls, shoving and clawing at each other.

"Let _go_," I growl, as my cape rips loudly under Joker's clenched fists and knife.

"No, _you _let go!" Joker snarls and attempts to squirm out of my hold of his lapels. "I mean, _c'mon_, I know you're _P.O.'d_ and all, but is this _really _necessary?"

He suddenly knees me in the stomach. I back up, swinging my fist toward him, landing a solid hit, making him falter.

"You attacked me first," I say, finally shoving him away, watching in a detached way as he bumps against the closest wall. "You're such a child. When things don't go your way, out comes the knife."

Joker gasps for breath, shaking his head and pocketing the knife. "And yet _you're _the one who dresses up as a _flying rodent _and rails on _me _when things get too tough for you." He grins. "Don't try the 'holier-than-thou' schtick with _me_, Batsy. All that ego can't be good for your, ah, _dietary needs._"

I walk back toward the Tumbler, my boots crunching in the snow.

"Because as we both know, you can take the _man_ out of the _bat_…"

I can hear the _crunch _of his shoes following me, but keep walking…until he suddenly steps in front of me. His expression is collected, smug. He takes hold of my torn cape and moves closer, pulling me toward him.

I make sure to betray no emotion, even as I find myself being submerged in the smell of greasepaint and the musky-sweet cologne. Joker's hand rests easily on my cowl, pulling me closer. I try to fill my mind with other things—such as the burning rubble that _was _our rendezvous point only a short while ago.

I will not give in.

Joker's fingers are sliding down the cowl. His thumb traces my chin as we enact the familiar beginnings of our dance.

I will _not _give in.

"…_Buuuuut_…" Joker breaks away and grins at me, knees brushing against mine. "You just can't take the _bat _out of the _man_, can you?"

I don't give in. I push him away and continue toward the Tumbler, not looking back. I know that there's a chance that I could too easily reverse myself.

Joker's laughter has an edge to it. "_Well_, Batsy? What d'you say, _hmmmm?_" he calls after me, but I open up the Tumbler and climb inside.

I know he'll show up at the Christmas Party—or that he'll make an appearance in public sometime soon. That much is obvious. So I have to prepare myself. Make sure I'm ready for him.

If there's one thing Joker taught me, it's "always come prepared".


	32. Chapter 32: Bruce

Disclaimer: I don't own _The Dark Knight_, only this plot.

**Chapter Thirty-Two: Bruce**

* * *

The season of giving has come to Gotham's socialites, once again.

And once again, my penthouse is the place to be. Fine champagne, music to dance to, people to flirt with—my party has it all…with the bonus of a gift exchange—from me to the guests, and vice versa. I even went so far as to have the waiters bearing hors d'oeuvres in Santa and elf outfits. I find the lack of waitresses a little surprising—but then, gender isn't the defining trait, it's _competence._

And so far, competence does not appear to be the watchword for certain waiters. I've had several kicked out after they spilled food on several of my guests.

I walk among my guests, make idle chatter, but I'm more focused on staying alert for anything out of the ordinary. Everything _seems _all right, but doesn't _feel _right…

I try to keep myself from seeing purple suits and red lipstick-adorned scars everywhere I turn. It's been happening a lot lately—since I burned down that old hotel. Even though I promised myself I wouldn't think of him again, my mind _still _goes back to Joker.

I've known in the back of my mind that no matter _what _I do, I'll always have to encounter him again. After all, Joker's made it perfectly clear that he intends for Gotham to be _his_, even though it's _my _city. Our nights together kept the balance in check. And now…

Now is not the time for worries. Tonight I plan to forget him for a few hours…at least for a little while longer.

"What do you think, Coleman?" I ask, as Coleman Reese looks up from his champagne and looks up at me, surprised. "Feeling the holiday spirit?"

"Sure, Bruce," Coleman stammers, and the busty redhead beside him giggles into her glass. "It's one hell of a party."

"So when're we going to get our rewards for being good boys and girls, Brucie?" an old flame—Becky, I think—asks, her blond hair tumbling into her low cut dress. "I'm getting a little tired of _waiting._"

"In a little while," I reply, giving her my most plastic smile. "I'm sure you'll occupy yourself until then."

"Bruce!" Jenny calls, waving her long hand to get my attention. She looks good in her red heels and so-called "Happy Holidays" dress. Her blonde hair is tied up in an elegant bun, but it seems the champagne is getting to her.

"Hi, Jenny," I say with a smile, walking over to her and taking her hand. She is a more-than-welcome distraction. "Having fun?"

"Definitely," she says, a hint of breathlessness in her voice as she looks at me. "You look great, as always."

"Thanks." I run my hand absentmindedly through my hair. The music changes to a slow, Christmas love song. "Want to dance?"

Jenny nods and takes my hand, and together we move across the ballroom floor, mingling with the other happy couples. I wish Rachel and I—or Rachel and _Harvey_—had a chance to do this, had a chance to be carefree for once. But by this point, I'll take what happiness I can get.

We dance through another slow song, then have to take a break. We move toward a small, uninhabited corner of the room to chat for a bit. Jenny suddenly rubs her arm nervously, a small frown on her face.

"Is something wrong?" I ask, feeling worried.

Jenny offers me a shaky smile. "No, I'm fine. Just…a little overwhelmed, that's all."

Alfred walks over to us, a small smile on his face.

"Enjoying yourself, Master Bruce?"

"Very much," I reply, resting my hand comfortably on Jenny's arm. She nods happily.

"It's time for the gift exchange, sir. Best not keep anyone waiting."

"Right." Jenny and I walk toward the pile of presents arm and arm to polite applause.

I thank everyone for coming to my "little gathering", and start handing out the gifts. New mp3 players, cameras, tickets to various games, tickets to tropical islands, jewelry…the guests eat it up like Gotham's poor eat rotting trash. With every brownnosing "thanks so much", I feel my stomach recoil a little more.

There's a _crash _as another waiter drops a plate of gingerbread kebabs, spoiling the party atmosphere. Thankfully I keep my composure, and hand Jenny her gift (a ticket for two for the new museum exhibit) and Alfred ushers the waiter out.

In between this, I receive gifts too—mostly the same things, things I don't really need, things _none _of us really need. It's all a show, all a game, a game I don't want to play.

Suddenly, in the middle of accepting the latest gift (diamond cufflinks), I see one of the servers staring at me. He's an elf for the evening—decked out in green, with a charming pointed green hat and red tights and yellow pixie boots. His eyes are anything but eager-to-please, however. There's an eerie light in those dark eyes, a light that I recognize instantly. In fact, I recognize _him _instantly.

I gesture for the fake-waiter-elf to come to me. He lopes over, white teeth trying to disguise an eager grin, still balancing his tray of gingerbread cookies on the tips of his fingers like a professional.

"Cookie?" Thomas Schiff asks, his eyes filled with a manic gleam.

"Yes." I take a cookie and chew reflectively, scanning the room for other suspicious persons. "Thank you."

My worst fears are confirmed—_all of the servers_ are giving me barely-concealed looks of amusement.

I gesture for Schiff to stay there while I go through the other presents, thanking each socialite in turn. Finally, the party's over, and Alfred ushers everyone toward the exit.

Including the waiters.

I rush to the elevator, quickly whispering to Alfred of the new threat as I go. I zip down, and get on my motorbike, following the lime-green truck filled with giggling madmen.

We pass through busy intersections packed with red and green lights, Christmas carols blurring into white noise. I'm tailing the truck perfectly…

…Until my cell phone rings.

I pick up as I pass a swanky hotel. "Bruce Wayne." My eyes are still on the truck.

"_Hi, Bruce_," Jenny says sweetly. "_I was wondering if tomorrow afternoon we could go out for lunch. Maybe at Pasquale's?_"

"Sure." I smile in spite of myself. "I'll be there."

"_Great! Thanks a bunch. Merry Christmas, Bruce!_"

"And a happy New Year." I hang up, only to have my phone ring again. Irritated, I pick up: "Bruce—"

"_Hiiiiiiii, Batsy. Were the boys good tonight? I'd hate to have, ah, caused you _trouble_ or something._"

The truck passes through the intersection, and I follow at a safe distance.

I growl. "Joker, I don't have _time_—"

"_Ooooooh _yes _you do. Y'know, you really should be going after the guy _responsible." I can hear Joker licking his lips on the other end. "_Get a little of that _blandness _out of your night, right?_"

"Where are you," I growl.

"_I'll give you directions. We have a _lot _of catching up to do…_"

I watch as the truck's taillights vanish into the night.


	33. Chapter 33: Alfred

I felt like changing the pace a little this time…

Disclaimer: I don't own _The Dark Knight_. Only this plot.

**Chapter Thirty-Three: Alfred**

* * *

Sometimes, no matter how old Master Bruce gets, I still think of him as a child.

He's _young_—strong, filled with his opinions and his own conscience, able to turn people's heads without even batting an eye. Underneath that playboy exterior, there's pain that even the finest psychiatrists or a person like me can heal. But of course, like many young people, he tries to hide it.

It doesn't always work—not around _me_, at least.

No matter how on-guard he was tonight at the party, he still managed not to notice the "servers" true allegiance until it was almost too late. Luckily he trusts me with a gun—if anything had gotten out of hand, well, it wouldn't have been that way for long.

With that in mind, I keep a gun on my person as the other housekeepers and I take care of the remains of the party. I make idle chatter as I sweep up the floor of the glittering ballroom, noting the faint grit on the floor from the "servers". A tell-tale flaw—but one that Master Bruce missed.

The trouble with fancy galas is that you get easily distracted—especially if you are the host. The glittering jewelry, the glamour, the shimmering dresses and well-pressed tuxedos hide the morbid underbelly of Gotham's materialists. Sometimes, Master Bruce concentrates so much on acting like a playboy billionaire that he gets caught up in the socialite lifestyle. He'll grow out of it, I know.

Once the housekeepers are away, I make sure that none of the "panic rooms" have been discovered. Master Bruce wouldn't be happy if his secret was discovered this night…

Growing out of _Batman_, however, is something else entirely.

It's clear as day that, despite his code of honour, Master Bruce is becoming more "addicted" to his life as a vigilante. A _certain _aspect in particular…

A certain aspect whose warpaint, I note, has yet to be cleaned out of the bed sheets.

In a way, I can see why Master Bruce finds "Mr. J" so fascinating. On the one hand, he is careless and almost rakish, gadding about with his dark intentions and Glasgow grin. On the other, he is frighteningly _intelligent_, methodical in his schemes. Though he _claims_ he doesn't plan, _I_ saw the wheels turning in his garish head that morning.

Another aspect of note is that Master Bruce is not _moping about _quite as much as he used to. In fact, now he's growing _busier _than usual—more board meetings, more patrols, more parties…

As if on cue, the phone rings. I walk over to the nearest phone and pick up.

"Good evening. Bruce Wayne's residence. How may I help you?"

"_It's me, Alfred_," Master Bruce replies, his tone a little tense. "_It looks like I'm going to be late tonight. 'Mr. J' has made plans_."

I don't know what to say. I know what I _want _to say, but…

"_Look, Alfred, I wish_—God_..._" Master Bruce growls in irritation at his own predicament. "_Okay…I'll let you know as soon as I know what's going on._"

"I'll see you in the morning, sir. Merry Christmas, Master Bruce."

"_And a Happy New Year, Alfred._" I can hear cars honking in the background. "_Thanks again._"

"You're quite welcome, sir."

It appears he's growing up, though he _is_ dealing with a grittier Peter Pan, shall we say.


	34. Chapter 34: Joker

Disclaimer: I don't own _The Dark Knight. _Only this plot.

**Chapter Thirty-Four: Joker**

* * *

I can't help feeling…_giddy _as I pace nervously at the front door, waiting for Batsy to show.

I was very, ah, _exact _in my directions, so he won't get _lost_, obviously. He _knows _Gotham.

I look at the clock—only 10. Plenty of time before I actually decide to get some shut-eye. And yes, I _will_ sleep well tonight—no waking up in the middle of the night to clean my knives, or scribbling smiley faces on bills, or even going through my, ah, _news clippings _collection to make sure I didn't _miss _one. There's a whole box dedicated to Batsy, of course, and my hero Harvey.

Another detail of my, ah, _unique _sleeping habits: when I was a kid, maybe seventeen or so, I found out that the only way I could sleep well was with a purple garter around my left thigh.

…_Yeah. _

So when Batsy comes to the door of my hideout, I'm wearing a pair of purple frilled bloomers (for lack of a…_better _phrase) and the garter, with a black "I Believe In Harvey Dent" t-shirt just for the hell of it.

I open the door and give Batsy my best smile. "Look who decided to drop by! C'mon in!"

"I can't _believe_ you," Batsy says, snatching me up by the collar and slamming me against the wall, his eyes filled with rage. "Wasn't burning that place down _enough_?"

I sigh and pat his shaking hands, cracking my neck. "Hey, now, that was _your _idea. Unless, of course, you wanted me to…_stop _you."

"_No. _I wanted you to know I was _serious_—"

I roll my eyes. "Batsy, you're _always _serious."

Batsy's scowl deepens. "Do you know what abuse _is_?"

I can feel my lungs constrict. "Why, _yes_. _Intimately._ Which are you _referring _to, hmm? _Substance_ abuse? That's 'the misuse of a substance for the sake of it's nontheraputic effects on the mind and body', if you go by the dictionary. As in junkies. _Child_ abuse? You obviously never had _that_, _Wayne._ _Domestic_ abuse? No? Or maybe you think _date rape _is more apropos?"

"You've been dragging me along by the cape, doing whatever you please." Batsy drops me, and I slide to the floor, my back against the wall.

"Oh, nono_noooo_," I retort, smiling. "You know full and _well _that this is _your _choice. _Always. _That safeword is open to you. Like I said, _you complete me._"

Batsy glares at me silently, fists slowly unclenching.

"And besides, this really…isn't the _night _for that kind of talk. Christmas Eve, y'know? The boys are off to debate which is better—_Avatar _or _Sherlock Holmes_. We have the whole night to ourselves."

Batsy snorts and steps away, adjusting his slick black dinner jacket. "Do you _always _have to crash my parties?"

I laugh. "Why _not_? It's fun! Besides, you don't like socializing with those brownnosers_ anyway_, judging by what Schiff told me."

I take a closer look at his lapel. There's a blonde hair there…_hmmmm…_

"Who does _this _belong to, Batsy?" I pluck the hair and twirl it between my fingers, eyebrows raised. "Been a little, ah, _busy _tonight?"

"That must be from Jenny," Batsy replies smoothly, taking the hair away from me. "She's a very nice girl. Great sense of humor…"

"Which _I _have."

"…A kind heart…"

"She probably _wants_ something from you. And by _something_, I mean _your cash._"

"Not _everyone _is so driven by their desires. She's also beautiful…"

"I'm not half bad either, y'know."

"…_Intelligent_…"

I grin. "I'm not even going to answer _that _one."

"How about _humble?_" Batsy gives me The Look I taught him, proving just how much he's learned already.

I look at him through my eyelashes. "Ummm…I'm not _worthy?_"

Batsy rolls his eyes. "Nice try."

I giggle. "Whaddya say we, ah, put this _Jenny _chick in the _backseat _for now, hmmm?"

Batsy puts his hands in his pockets and raises an eyebrow. "So, what are you planning then? Oh, wait. You _don't _plan—how could I forget."

_That's what _you _think. _I grin as I get up, brushing myself off. "Well, _actually_, I've got some presents for you. But we'll get to that whenever. _Soooo_…" I cock my head to one side. "Are you hungry?"

Batsy looks surprised. "A little."

"Oh, _good_. There's stuff in the kitchen. This way, _Monsieur_."

--

"_Now_," I say, as I open the fridge, watching as Batsy leans casually against the kitchen wall. "Take a seat…and close your eyes."

"This sounds familiar." Batsy sits at the round table, resting his hands on the wood. "You didn't _do _anything to the food, did you?"

"Of course not! It's a tried and true in_dul_gence. Want to, ah, _test_ it on me?"

"Actually, yes." Batsy gets up and stands beside me, looking over the selection. He spots the grapes in a bowl on the counter and plucks one, holding it out for me.

"Fine by me." I reach out with my tongue and snatch it up, balancing it carefully before tipping my head back and…letting it _roll_ into my mouth. I bite down, enjoying the delicious sweet-sour taste. "See?"

"Yes. Well, then." Batsy sits back down, eyes half-closed, watching me.

"I _see _that. No _peeking!_"

He closes his eyes.

I silently take a large kitchen knife I've sharpened to a razor's edge and carefully slice a grape in two, exposing the moist flesh and tiny seeds. "Didn't think I'd pull something like _this_, did you?"

"I have to admit, you've surprised me…_again._"

I carry the plate over and sit beside Batsy, my bare toes wiggling on the cold tile floor. "Say 'aaah', Batsy." I spear one of the slices with the tip of the knife and hold it in front of Batsy's face. "Open wide."

Batsy sighs and sticks out his tongue—and in it goes. He chews reflectively. "Sweet…a small, bitter aftertaste…is it a Concord grape?" he asks.

"Bingo." I spear another slice. "Want more?"

"Sure," he replies, still somewhat hesitant.

Soon the grapes are done, and I go back to the fridge. I turn on the microwave and watch as Batsy stiffens with surprise at the obnoxious _beeeeeeeeep_'s that fill the air. It doesn't take long for the next "mini-course" to be heated up.

"Any guesses?" I ask, grinning as he makes a very, ah, _ungentlemanly _slurping noise, the end of the slender thing smacking his nose.

"Spaghetti," he says, rubbing his nose. "Wheat."

This continues for a few more minutes, with me treating Batsy to tastes of avacado, banana, oyster (now _that _was a trick—it kept sliding off the fork), and finally Betty's chocolate pie. By the end, Batsy's looking _hungry_, and I'm ready to show him the first presents.

"That's enough for now. But keep your eyes closed, Batsy."

I take the bottles of body paint out of the fridge and place them on the table, feeling giddier than I've felt in a while.

"Okay, Batsy, _my_ turn." I take the brush and paint a little streak of strawberry on his thumb. "Any guesses what _this _is?"

"…Cold."

I lick the strawberry streak off, the salt of his skin mingling with the sweetness of the paint. I watch as Batsy starts getting a little, ah, _red_. I get another dollop on my thumb and press it to his lips, grinning as his tongue tentatively reaches out and…

Batsy's eyes open, looking surprised. He looks down at the bottles, eyebrow raised. "…_Body_ paint?"

"Just for _you_," I say as Batsy turns the bottles around, inspecting them like the detective. "Well, and _me_, too, since these are made with, ah, _two _people in mind…"

Batsy looks at me, asking a question with his eyes I _knew _would come up.

"I told you, Batsy…" I grin and lean closer. "Tonight's the night to…be _indulgent._"

"You're trying to seduce me."

Batsy's deadpan tone sends me into a fit of cackling. "Well, _duh._ Don't you _like _being seduced?"

"_No._"

"_Nooooo?_" I raise my eyebrows in mock-surprise.


	35. Chapter 35: Joker

Disclaimer: I don't own _The Dark Knight. _Only this plot.

** Chapter Thirty-Five: Joker**

* * *

Reluctantly, Batsy follows me up the stairs.

"Firstly," I say as we step into my new…_boudoir_, "at the riskof sounding, ah, _full _ofmyself, that fancy-schmancy suit has _got _to go."

"I like this suit." Batsy straightens the lapels as I look it up and down. "It's made of wool from Peru. And last time I checked, you're _always _full of yourself."

"_Funny guy. _That doesn't change the fact that it's _tacky_." I take out my knife (from _where_, you ask? Well…take a _guess_) and get to work. "Now don't worry, I've got plenty of clothes around. We'll find _something _for you."

Batsy glares at me and steps back, pulling away. "I can do this myself." He slides the tuxedo off, revealing the whitecollar satin shirt and black suspenders. "I would like to have my things in one piece when I leave."

I walk over to the radio and turn it on. Christmas carols are now a-crooning, soft as snow.

Batsy looks over at the radio, then back at me. "What brought _that _on?"

I shrug and place the knife on the bedside table. It's a bit…_jarring_, seems out of _place_ next to the simple radio-clock, the glass of ice-cold water and the stack of classic _lit_era_ture_. Batsy's hands are sure and quick as they unsnap the suspenders, loosen the tie…

"Y'know, Batsy…" I get myself comfortable on the bed and bounce happily, waiting for him to join me. "Mr. Giggles _really _missed you. Did Mr. Glum miss Mr. Giggles?"

"Don't start _that_ again," Batsy grumbles, _finally _sitting beside me in just his black boxers, arms folded across his chest in that stubborn way.

I look him over, looking as, ah, _forlorn _as I can. "Mr. Glum isn't awake yet?" I ask, frowning. "Well, that's fine. He'll be, ah, _up and about _soon enough."

I gesture for Batsy to lie down on the bed. He keeps a wary eye on me as he rests his head on the pillows and waits for "the inevitable" as he calls it. Incredible, inevitable, _delectable_… whichever floats your boat…

"Now, I _told _you this was going to be a night of _indulgence_…" I hop off the bed and from the drawer take out my green-and-red suspenders. The ones with the little silver bells. Ho-ho-ho, _indeed._ "…And I _mean_ it."

The carols keep playing.

Batsy looks at the suspenders, then at me. He doesn't need to say anything—the raised eyebrows say it all. I hum along with the carols as I manage to wrap Batsy's wrists and elbows together with a Spanish bowline knot behind his back, two pillows behind him to keep him…_comfy. _

His arms are now covered in an array of green and red patterns, snaking from his elbows to his wrists, contrasting the color of his flesh _quite _nicely. He's going to be, ah, quite the _musical _bat. His chest is more, ah, _pro_mi_nent _this way, too, which is a plus…

"I've been wanting to…try this _out_ for awhile." I settle myself back on the bed and idly run my hands through Batsy's hair. "Think it'll work, _hmmm?_"

Batsy _still_ doesn't say anything—but that's to be…_expected_ by now. If he were a talker, he wouldn't be _Batsy_, now would he?

My hands clench in his silky, slicked-back hair as our lips finally touch. I can feel the warmth of his body under me, his heart rate slowly picking up, his teeth grinding oh-so-_endearingly. _His skin breaks out into goosebumps—something that I can't help but smile at.

The carols keep playing.


	36. Chapter 36: Joker

Disclaimer: I don't own _The Dark Knight. _Only this plot.

**Chapter Thirty-Six: Joker**

* * *

"…I never should have…let you so close…" Batsy whispers. "You shouldn't be able to…_do _this to me…"

"And yet, I _can._" I laugh as I touch him, watching as he turns his head, dark eyelashes fluttering like wounded bats. "And you're _a-okay _with it all, judging by your…_reactions._ Which are great, by the way. Keep 'em going!"

I pick up one of the bottles of body paint—mmmm, _strawberry_—and dip the brush in, tapping the edge of the bottle to get the more, ah, _globby _drops off. I glide the brush over his stomach in an arc, giggling at the way Batsy shivers.

"Cold?" I grin and begin to draw strawberry-flavored bats on his legs and feet—though that doesn't work _exactly _how I want it, since apparently Batsy's…_ticklish._

"Stop that."

I crouch down near his feet and run my tongue over the soles, salt mingling with strawberry I've painted there too, watching as he wriggles to move away.

"…It _tickles._"

_Oh._

He nearly _kicks _me until I hold his foot down with one hand. Funny, he isn't _laughing _or anything…

I decide to be nice tonight. I lick away the little sugary doodles as he tilts his head back, his eyes growing hazy. And oh so _mesmerizing_.

"Y'know, I'm surprised you decided to show up. You _could _have just let all this slide…or gone after the boys. But you _didn't._" I run my hands over his scars, my palms resting on his belly. "Any idea _why?_"

Batsy slowly opens and closes his eyes, perfect teeth glittering in the light. "I don't know."

I grin and pat his cheek mockingly. "You're _horrible _when it comes to lying."

The carols keep playing.

"If you're so _smart_…don't you already _know_ all the answers?" Batsy turns his head to one side, trying to get away from my touch, it _seems_…but that _look _in his eyes isn't _lying._

"Because I thought that _maybe _you were _learning _something lately about yourself. Guess not."

I loosen the suspenders a bit with one hand as I clean away the rest of the body paint, to make sure Batsy doesn't lose any, ah, _circulation. _Batsy looks gratefully at me before his eyes close shut again as I return to my…_unfinished business._

"Well, Batsy, would you just look at _that!_" I pat his shoulder as a way of congratulating him. "Mr. Glum's waking up!"

"Why does it need a name?"

"_Everything_ needs a name," I reply, _names_ _far _from important to me right _now_.

I distract him from the little things like I always do, let him focus on the, ah, _big picture_—basically, _what _we're doing and _why. _I watch his mouth slowly open, breathing quickly, his whole body flushed. The scent of him is wonderful—spicy, musky, rich. The heat of his body is almost _too _much—and his _eyes_, that _look _he has, that _look_…

Tonight I _do _aim to please. But I want to be selfish too, _sooooo_…

"Time for Mr. Giggles to go _spelunking!_" I slide off my clothes—but keep my garter on for the hell of it. "C'mere. Oh, wait, let me, ah, _help _you…"

I move toward Batsy and settle myself beside him on the pillows.

"But before Mr. Giggles and Mr. Glum have another, ah, _epic adventure_…are you okay with this, Batsy?"

Batsy looks at me, clearly surprised and…_suspicious_. "Why do _you _care?"

Suddenly I feel a _lot _more awkward than I should. I fidget with the blankets before answering. "…Let's talk about that _later_, okay?"

"No. _Now._"

"Let's get settled, and I'll tell you."

After a few more moments of getting comfortable and ready to go, I find myself staring at a dreamy-eyed Batsy, with his hair slowly flopping into his eyes, too-perfect lips open, body warm against mine. The tiny bells chime out a slow tune, sounding more like chained _prisoners _than a merry tinkling.

I'm surprised at how…_light _I feel. I'm taking my time, letting Batsy deal with the…_sensuality_ of it all. Mr. Glum is becoming a little more _enamored _of me as well, if "he" is anything to go by…

The carols keep playing.

"Joker…" Batsy growls, as I keep him from toppling over and smacking his head on the headboard, "…What's with the _pace_…?"

"Wasn't this…one of your reasons for, ah, _bailing _recently? Y'know, the old 'am I just a toy to you' stuff they pull in the movies? Well, I'm…_honoring _that." I grin up at him as reassuringly as I can.

"…_Why?_"

I sigh. "Because, the better class of criminal has _standards_, y'know. A good, ah, _entertainer _needs to _engage _with his fellow actors, so that he can cue the audience. Draw them in."

Batsy's legs shudder as I rest my hands on his hips.

"That doesn't…really answer my question."

I grin. "Oh, _good._" I give Mr. Glum the attention he _deserves _for a few moments, watching as Batsy's eyes close for a moment, lost in his own…_little emotions. _

Batsy suddenly shudders as I put a little more _force _behind me, giving him something a bit more…_familiar. _It's almost time…but my mind is wandering…not the best _time _for that…but I can't help thinking…we've fought, we've bantered, we've run through Gotham like kids in a playground, jumped each other's bones like the world's going to end, given each other scars that'll never, _ever _leave, we've given each other heaven and _hell_—and yet, we're both _here. Together. _

So there's these two guys in an interrogation room…oh, I'll make one up later.

The two of us start losing control. But we can't _yet. _There's still so much to _do_…

"Joker…"

I instantly stop.

"Nono_noooo_, Batsy, not _yet._" I'm causing _myself _no small discomfort, either, but this is _important._ "Have you figured out why you came here yet?"

"I _told _you, _I don't know!_"

"Think about it. I'll be…_patient._"

Batsy glares at me and tries to get me to do _something_, but I'm just as stubborn as he is. "You're a bastard."

"And proud of it. But that's not a good answer."

Batsy's scowl deepens. "It keeps you out of trouble."

"Close, but no. Try again."

"It keeps Gotham in balance."

I giggle. "Oh, sure, Mr. Glum's the _other _Dark Knight of Gotham. Try again."

_Finally_, he seems to come to a decision. "I came here…because of a bad habit."

"Close enough. Need me to loosen your arms a bit?" I ask, hoping he's not trying to be _brave _or anything.

"A bit more…would be good."

I do as he says. "This better?"

Batsy doesn't answer. He _can't _answer, not in the, ah, _place and time _he's in. If I didn't know any better, I'd almost say he was melting in our joint heat. I'm pretty sure the windows are all fogged up too…and Mr. Glum's, ah, absolutely _chipper._

Finally, it's the shuddering, feral expression on Batsy's face (_decadent_, some poets could call it) that sends me over the edge. I watch as his mouth opens _wide _in that wordless, soundless _scream _I know so well, and the world goes away for a few wonderful, electric moments.

When it starts to piece itself back together, I realize the carols are still going.

"Someone should turn that off," Batsy mumbles into my shoulder, grumpy as ever.

"In a sec," I assure him, not really wanting to get up. "Do you like your presents so far?"

"I've had more than enough."

I chuckle and rest my hand on his back. "Eventually, we're _both _gonna need to get up. Can't fight fate."

Batsy rolls over onto the blankets, eyes dark and drowsy.

"Yeah…later."


	37. Chapter 37: Joker

As you've probably guessed by now, we were _going_ to be back to our usual weekend schedule for this fic, but a sudden lack of Internet complicated things.

Also, I'm sorry that we're three weeks into Spring, but we're still celebrating Christmas in this fic! This will persist for the next three chapters, but after that things will start to catch up.

Disclaimer: I don't own _The Dark Knight_, or "Santa Baby" (though there have been so many covers _no one _knows for sure who sang the song first).Only this plot.

**Chapter Thirty-Seven: Joker**

* * *

"_Season's greetings, Gotham! It's 9:45 a.m., and you kids know what day it is…_"

There's something…_hot_…on my chest. And _fluffy._ I groan and open my eyes, coming face-to-face with Jack, who automatically starts purring.

"_Mornin'_," I slur, picking Jack up by the scruff of the neck and putting him down on the floor oh-so-_gently_.

I slowly sit up and turn off the radio alarm, rubbing my eyes and trying to, ah, get the _show on the road. _I can already hear the boys downstairs waking up, chattering, shrieking with glee at the little gifts "Santa" brought them. I can even smell pancakes cooking—Schiff's being a good boy as usual, maybe _too _good for my taste. But it _is _Christmas Day…yippee_. _

I sit and pet Jack for a while, grinning as he bumps his head against me and goes off on his way. I look around the room, trying to remember where I put the video camera. The boys'll want this morning to be on _tape_, after all…the day when we celebrated our first _warm _Christmas in awhile.

My fingers suddenly touch something smooth and _warm_—and I remember.

I look down. Batsy's sleeping beside me and not having a good dream, by the looks of things. His hair's a mess, his hands are holding on to the blankets like a lifeline, and his eyebrows are _still _furrowed, even while he's _sleeping. _In_cred_ible.

I stare at him awhile longer, marveling at this whole…_oddity. _I mean, we've never _had _a "morning after" before. We've never woken up like this. This is a brand-new moment.

…But _all_ good things must come to an _end_.

Were I a _nicer _guy, _maybe _I would do something sappy to wake him up, but…_sappy _just isn't our _style._

I pinch his nose and grin as Batsy's eyes snap open and his hand _lunges _for my face. I grab him by the wrist and hold on firmly as his hand slowly _clenches. _

"Merry Christmas, Batsy," I say coolly, dropping his hand and stretching. I'm still a bit…_sore _in places, and I'm sure Batsy's no better off. "Awake yet?"

"No." Batsy pulls the covers over his head, and suddenly I realize why I was so _cold _last night.

"You're a regular _blanket hog. _No _wonder _you never have anybody over." I tug at the blankets and yank them off, leaving Batsy shivering. "C'monc'mon_c'mooooon_, Batsy! There's still _presents _for you!"

Batsy grumbles and sits up, rubbing his eyes. "On second thought, I don't want to close my eyes too long around you. Who knows _what _you'll do."

I giggle. "Good idea—_I _don't know either."

Suddenly, there's this…_silence. _We're both _staring_ at each other, not sure what to do with this…_morning after _thing. I can feel our _feet _touching, keeping each warm. It's a bit _funny_, actually—for two _years_ we've been having this affair. We never woke up together before.

It's _Batsy_ of all people who breaks the silence. That little crease between his eyebrows appears, and his hand reaches out. I automatically find myself bracing for the impact. I close my eyes.

Will he grab my shoulder and draw his fist back for a knuckle sandwich? (Not that I _mind_).

Will he yank my ear and growl something about how last night changes _nothing? _(So very stubborn…).

Or _maybe_ he'll try to get back at me for last night? (Doubtful, but _entertaining_ at least).

Or even better…_all of the above? _(Can't go wrong with _multiple choice_!)

His fingers reach out, touch my cheek, and…_vanish._

"Well. _That's _interesting."

I open my eyes and cock my head to one side. "What?"

Batsy scratches his chin, one eyebrow raised, and for a _crazy _moment I wonder if he and Al really _are _related. "You have freckles. I never noticed."

…Well _that_ was anti-climactic as hell.

I climb out of bed and toss Batsy's clothes to him before going through my closet. "Let's see…what to _wear_…"

I take out my red-and-green pinstriped shirt and green sweater vest, dumping them on the bed. "By the way…do you like pancakes?"

"…They're okay." I can hear the rustle of Batsy's clothes as he puts them on. "Is it some kind of tradition of yours?"

"Christmas pancakes? Yep!" I look Batsy over as he slides on his suspenders, adjusting the collar of his shirt _just so. _"…You're not going to _shower?_"

"I showered last night." Batsy pats his pockets, looking a bit…_irritated. _"I could've sworn I had a comb—"

"Catch." I toss him mine absentmindedly, still looking for a good tie. "Yeah, but…you're kinda…_mussed._"

I find the camera (and the tripod) in the back of the closet and haul them out, whistling.

"It'll do." Batsy adjusts his tie. "I never thought _you _of all people cared about hygiene."

I gasp in mock surprise. "What, you never noticed how _groomed _I am, on our little _trysts_?" I wag my finger, clicking my tongue. "_Bad _Batsy, no biscuit."

Batsy rolls his eyes and brushes back his hair. "Perhaps I'll be more observant next time."

Someone knocks at the door. I walk over and open it, smiling as kindly as I can at Schiff. He smiles nervously back, balancing the tray of Christmas tree-shaped pancakes (for _two_—smart boy) on the tips of his fingers. He would make a great server…if not for his, ah, _tendencies._

"Thanks, Schiffy. Merry Christmas." I take the tray from him and head toward the bed. "By the way, how'd the movies go?"

"Great!" Schiff beams. "But—we couldn't pick which…" He falters.

"Was _better?_" I ask, finishing his sentence for him. "_Good _boy," I say, putting the tray beside Batsy. "We'll be down in a sec. Don't let _anybody _open their presents yet. Got it?"

"Yeah," Schiff says, his eyes trained on Batsy—who is being surprisingly _oblivious _as he shakes out his coat.

I clear my throat, making Schiff jump.

"_Got it, _Schiff?"

Schiff nods meekly and bolts, tail between his legs. I giggle to myself and sit back on the bed, ready to eat. Batsy picks up a fork and begins eating, legs folded, balancing his plate on his lap.

"Looks like you've…_practiced_ that little trick." I copy him, happy that the pancakes are just as fluffy and buttered as I, ah, _expect _them to be. "Get breakfast in bed often?"

"Often enough." Batsy's eyes widen as he looks down at his plate. "These are delicious. How…?"

"According to _the Schiffster_, it's a recipe he learned from a 'friend' of his." I wiggle my fingers pointedly. "Just one of many very…_persuasive _friends."

"Oh."

Once we've both finished, I stack the plates and things together on the tray and put them aside. "You're _sure _you don't wanna shower?"

"Positive."

"Your loss." I grab my clothes and head for the bathroom. Batsy's cell phone rings just as I leave the room. "Better grab that—ol' _Alberto _might be a little, ah, _peeved._"

I open the bathroom door, humming to myself. I walk in and make sure nobody's, ah, _breaking the rules _while I was otherwise _occupied. _Nope. All clear.

I climb into the tub and turn on the shower, singing to myself.

"_Santa-Batsy, slip a sable under the tree, for me…been an awful good clown…_" I scrub my hair and sigh as the water pelts down on my skin, warm and relaxing every pore. "_Santa-Batsy, so hurry down the chimney tonight…_"

I decide to sing a bit _louder_, just in case Batsy didn't, ah, _catch _all that.

"…_Think of all the fun I've missed…think of all other freaks I _haven't_ kissed…_" I try picking up the soap, but it keeps _slipping _for some reason. "_Next year, I could be just as gooooood_…get _back _here, you stupid piece of—"

Someone knocks on the door. "Joker, tone it down."

"Why? Is my, ah, _angelic baritone _too _much _for the Great Batsy?" I ask, pouring a dollop of conditioner (_maybe it's Maybeline_) into my hand.

"It sounds like you're being strangled."

"Bet you would _looooooove _that." I whistle and try to grab at the soap again. "_Crap_."

"Anyway," Batsy growls, and I shiver despite the hot water running in rivulets down my back. "I'm leaving now. I have a meeting to get to."

"A_ Mob _meeting?" I ask, hurriedly finishing and climbing out of the shower, shaking my head quickly from side to side, splattering the bathroom mirror. "Wait for _me_, then!"

"It's not like that. It's just…meeting Jenny."

I stop pulling on my clothes and grow very, very _still. _

"…Could you, ah, _repeat that?_"

"I'm going to meet Jenny." Batman's tone is firm. "I'm going now."

"Then let me…_show you out_. And give you your _other _presents along the way." I finish dressing and yank open the door, giving Batman as…_warm _a smile as the situation allows. "After all, it's, ah, _proper etiquette._"

Batman scowls and heads down the stairs, so very _tense_—as if he _knows _this whole "hi-bye" routine is getting really, _really _old. For _both of us. _It's not something either of us thought we'd have to face—this "something _more_" business, but I suppose we both knew it was gonna happen _someday._

When we reach the bottom of the stairs, I see Schiff and the rest staring at us the same way they stare at little birdies around town—curiously, like little kids. Not that that's _surprising _or anything.

"I'll be with you boys in a second," I say, resting my hand on Batsy's shoulder. "Just escorting Batsy here out."

The boys nod warily and go back to their breakfast and presents. I toss Batsy a box wrapped with paper I made myself—crayon-drawn bats, purple and black—with the curliest green ribbon I could find.

"What's this?" Batsy holds it to his ear—like I would blow up my own _hidey-hole _this _early on…_

"Your gift. The other one can wait for a less…_busy _time." I shrug and lean against the wall, waiting patiently as Batsy unwraps the gift.

He lifts the item out and looks at me. "A _hat?_"

"_Two _hats," I add, grinning as Batsy carefully puts the hat on his head. The green and black worked well together after all. "One for your, ah, _Bruce Wayne _skin, and the other for when you're out on patrol. It's _coooooold _out there."

"…Thanks." Batsy takes out the second hat, and—is that a _smile _that was almost born? "Nice ears."

"Took _ages _to get them right. I kept having to remember just _how _long those horn-things were."

"Mm. Well, thank you. I'll see you around."

And just like that, Batsy's out the door.

Typical. And we can't _have _typical, now _can _we…?


	38. Chapter 38: Bruce

Disclaimer: I don't own _The Dark Knight. _I do own this plot, and Jenny and her brother.

**Chapter Thirty-Eight: Bruce**

* * *

As it turns out, I'm still late by half an hour anyway, despite all my precautions.

Unsurprisingly, Pasquale's is just as busy as always—much busier than when Joker and I were here. Nearly every table is full, and everyone is happy. The music that Joker so cheerily criticized is politely commented on by polite businessmen in polite suits with polite manicures and polite smiles. Their ladies smile politely and drink their drinks in polite, practiced sips, their long painted nails glittering in the sickly overhead lights.

For a moment, I almost feel sick.

But then I remember why I'm here—and I find Jenny.

Jenny looks ready to leave, picking up her purse and paying for her half-eaten crepes—which are being packed into a doggie bag as I walk in the door. Our eyes meet, and she smiles good-naturedly as I move toward her, an apology already on my lips.

"Sorry I'm late. I got…held up. Merry Christmas, by the way." I take out my wallet. "Can I pay for that?"

Jenny smiles and shakes her head. "Merry Christmas. No, it's okay. I've got it."

"Oh." I look toward the table. "…Is there any way I can make this up to you?"

"I do have to go down to the bookstore to pick up something…"

I smile. "Sure. Actually, I can drive you to wherever you need to be…if you don't mind riding a motorcycle."

Jenny nods. "That would be fine." She holds up the doggie bag. "Want some?"

I smooth back my hair, feeling uncomfortable. "Thanks, but I've already eaten. Sorry."

"That's not a problem. More for my brother." Jenny smiles.

_Oh._

--

I hand Jenny an extra helmet as I rev up the engine, feeling uncomfortable as she wraps her arms around me for support.

My mind flashes to another, very different pair of hands wrapped around me, touching me, and I force myself to think of other things.

"So, how old is your brother?" I ask loudly over the roar of the bike as we speed past other cars on the intersection.

"Seven," Jenny yells back. "He's _obsessed_ with Batman!"

I have to admit I'm flattered…but of course I can't say that. I wait until we get to the bookstore to continue the conversation—it's hard to talk over so much noise.

I shut off the bike and hop off gingerly (my legs are a bit stiff this morning), extending a hand to Jenny. She takes it.

"My brother's name is Thomas," Jenny continues, a small, sad smile on her face. "My parents named him after your father. He's a hemophilic, so he doesn't get out much to play with others. But…he's still happy, somehow. I think one of the Odessa Family's children is a friend of his—they both go to the same private school."

"I'm glad." I smile. "I would like to meet Thomas someday."

"I'm not entirely sure it'll work out, but we'll see."

"Good." I give her a smile that isn't plastic—a rare thing from Bruce Wayne. "I'm looking forward to it."

I lean down, hoping maybe if I charm her into a date I can keep my mind off last night, and this morning's events.

Jenny looks down at her feet, then at me. "Bruce…?"

"Yes?" I stop. "Is something wrong?"

Jenny shakes her head. "No, no, just…" She gives me a level stare, but the paleness of her skin and slight strain in her voice tells me something's up.

"…I've decided to transfer to Metropolis a week from today. There's a job for me there at a company called LexCorp."

"Why?" I ask, but I think I already know the answer.

"Gotham's just too _unpredictable_, Bruce. The Mob, the Joker, the _violence_—it's all too much. My family's getting more stressed by the day." Jenny sighs and looks down at the pavement. "I'm sorry, Bruce."

"Don't be. It's your decision," I find myself replying coolly, as though I'm at a board meeting instead of a painful "breakup" of sorts. "Maybe we can keep in touch?"

Jenny smiles. "I'd like that. You're a good friend."

Suddenly I find myself waiting for nightfall, when I can don the cowl again. I'm going to need the stress relief.


	39. Chapter 39: Bruce

Disclaimer: I don't own _The Dark Knight_, _The Moody Blues _or _The Importance of Being Earnest _by Oscar Wilde. I do own the Gemini club and the two girl characters.

**Chapter Thirty-Nine: Bruce**

* * *

When I get home, Alfred is waiting for me, watching the news.

"I'm pleased to note that you did _not _make the news today, Master Bruce," Alfred informs me, a small smile on his face. "As such, I trust your evening went smoothly?"

"Nothing I couldn't handle." I take off my coat and sit down beside him in front of the TV. "And I managed a winter hat or two out of the bargain."

Alfred gives me a warning look I haven't seen in awhile. "You'll have to give _him _a present as a thank-you."

I sigh and run a hand through my hair. "I'm working on it."

"I'll assist if necessary, sir. The hats are hand-made, I assume?" Alfred takes a look at the hats, his expression thoughtful. "He even made a small "J" on them. Quaint."

"And totally unexpected." I rub my temples, sighing. "_Why, _Alfred? Why does he go through this much trouble just to tick me off?"

Alfred chuckles. "If I may say so, sir, I think you're _both _past that particular stage in your 'careers'."

"Then what's left?"

Alfred gazes at me thoughtfully. "_That_, sir, is a choice entirely up to 'Mr. J' and yourself." He looks down at my hands, and with embarrassment I see the faint red outline from the compression of Joker's suspenders on my wrist. "I believe, Master Bruce, that you may need to do something about _that_ before you go out."

I pull my sleeve down and nod. "Yeah. Yeah…I'll do that."

There is an uncomfortable silence.

Alfred clears his throat. "Mr. Fico Maroni called. He requested I tell you to…'watch your back', as he put it. It seems that 'going legit' is not his first priority."

"That's to be expected." I sit down and stare at the TV for a moment, not really focusing. "I knew this wouldn't be easy, and I haven't given up yet. Gotham _will _be free of crime—by _my_ hands, whether I'm wearing a mask or not."

"Very good, sir." Alfred stands up slowly and yawns politely. "Do you have any other plans for today?"

"Not really," I reply, stretching. "Maybe I'll go to a club…or something. I haven't done that in awhile."

Alfred nods. "Very well, Master Bruce. But before that, I have a Christmas present for you."

"You really didn't have to, Alfred—" I begin, but Alfred is already chuckling good-naturedly and revealing a small carefully wrapped box from behind his chair.

"You say that every year, and yet every year it's exactly what you want."

I open the present and find a CD titled _Moody Blues: Greatest Hits_. Underneath the CD is _The Importance of Being Earnest _by Oscar Wilde—one of my favorite books that was lost in the fire two years ago.

I look up at Alfred and smile. "Thank you, Alfred. What would I do without you?"

Alfred smiles back. "Something _productive_ to your health, I hope, Master Bruce."

I think about asking if Lucius brought anything, but once again Alfred's one step ahead of me.

"Lucius is awaiting any requests you have. I hope you don't mind, sir, but I informed him of your meeting with the Mob, and…"

"And about Joker?" I tense up automatically.

Alfred shakes his head. "Well, not really. Just that your private life is becoming rather…_complicated_. More so than usual, that is."

"Ha-ha. Has a Wayne's life ever been simple?"

"Not that I know of, sir. But I _do _know that the Wayne family wouldn't have it any other way."

"Good point."

"Apparently Lucius is vacationing in San Francisco at the moment," Alfred informs me. "A card is in order."

"Yes." I stand up, still holding Alfred's gifts. "Thank you, Alfred."

"Always a pleasure, sir." Alfred smiles.

--

When I arrive at the Gemini Club with a girl whose name I don't remember, I'm surprised at how _full _it is.

The strobe lights are flashingin an array of colors, illuminating the dancers' writhing bodies. You can barely hear yourself _think _over the noise of synthesizers and raw, coarse words. The tables are clean, thankfully, so my blonde date and I sit comfortably near the dance floor, drinking martinis (I only pretend to, of course—no more hangovers, please). You can smell the sweat and the musk from the dancers everywhere you go—and several people are "mysteriously" disappearing to more private places.

This is not one of my favorite clubs, but it will have to do.

"Do you want to dance?" my date yells over the music. "This is a good song!"

Unfortunately, I have to—Bruce Wayne The Playboy loves to "party down"—but not yet.

"Let's wait for awhile," I reply loudly, giving her a reassuring a smile. "It's a bit too crowded!"

I'm just about to go back to my martini when I see _him._

Joker—wearing a leather jacket, leather pants and a large, mocking gold "J" around his neck—is dancing with a brunette in clothing no intelligent person would wear in the dead of winter. She's trying to grind against him like the other dancers, but he keeps stepping back, mockingly, then joining her again. He isn't wearing his war paint—his scars are covered by makeup and latex—but unfortunately I can recognize him all-too-well now.

"I know that girl," my date shrieks excitedly. "Her father owns a European toy factory!"

Why does that not surprise me?

Joker's eyes lock on me, and he suddenly pulls the girl into a dip. The girl's hands reach up to his shoulders, and she tries to press her body close to his. She doesn't succeed—he lifts her up and breaks away, brushing a strand of hair out of her face. His caring expression is as false as the clothes he wears.

He takes her by the arm and tries to teach her the Jitterbug—but she doesn't want to do that. She laughs, and I wonder exactly what his point is. It's clear they don't have anything in common…

I suddenly feel very uncomfortable. My date, sensing my discomfort, leans over and kisses me—out of jealousy, I think. She tastes like her neon-pink lipstick…and suddenly I'm reminded of another pair of lips, blood red…

I break away, and my date looks at me suspiciously. "You don't _like _me?" she whines.

"I'm sorry," I say, feeling sick. "Why don't we go somewhere else?"

Joker is still dancing, but his expression shows he's less than thrilled. She's still trying to grind against him, but he's holding her at arm's length, giving her a dark look that has nothing to do with desire.

"_No,_" I see his lips move, and the girl is getting angry. She slaps him and walks away.

He turns to look at me, shrugs, and looks around the club. Clearly finding no one of interest, he heads toward the door. Men and women turn to look at him, but Joker doesn't even glance at them. Soon, he's vanished outside.

"_Well?_" my date asks irritably, and suddenly I understand why Joker was here in the first place.

It was his little way of saying, once again, that he and I are not likeeveryone else…and that is all right, in his eyes.

I'm not too sure about what my thoughts on the matter are, but I have an image to maintain.

For the second time in two days, I wish I didn't have to.

"Wait," I say, touching her cheek. "I'll be back. I just…need to get some air."

Thankfully, she doesn't know me well enough to suspect anything.

As soon as I enter the cold Gotham night, I see Joker close by, whistling one of the pop hits from the club. He catches my eye and walks toward me, a lazy grin on his face.

"Well _hiiiiiiiiiiiii there_," Joker purrs, standing beside me, his shoulder brushing against mine. "Did you like my, ah, _dance routine _back there?"

"I'm just glad the girl is safe."

"I _thought _you would." Joker yawns and stretches, long fingers entwined above his head. "_Now_, why'd you leave that little bombshell on the lurch?" The smug grin on his face tells me he already has a hunch.

"I just wanted to say…thanks. For the gifts."

Joker rolls his eyes in my direction, his expression still smug. "…_Aaaand _you want to know what _I _want for Christmas. To re_pay _me."

I sigh irritably. "Yes. But nothing lethal."

Joker shrugs and rocks back on his heels. "Good question." His pink tongue runs over his scars languidly. "I mean, _technically _I already _got _what I wanted, but…"

"But?" I raise an eyebrow.

Joker giggles and turns to walk away. "…I _really _doubt it'd be, ah, _up your alley. _See ya."

I'm left with a whiny, insipid date and a far-too-long night ahead.


	40. Chapter 40: Bruce

Disclaimer: I don't own _The Dark Knight_, only this plot and the hotels.

**Chapter Forty: Bruce**

* * *

The fire's _social_ residue lingers in my mind as New Year's goes by in a flurry of champagne, glamorous dresses, and resolutions no one in Gotham intends to keep. I watch my back constantly, keeping my eyes open for _anything_ unusual.

Clearly the Mob is biding their time, waiting for the right moment to strike. So far, there have been no attempts on my life—but I'm sure they'll occur sometime soon. And when they do, I'll be ready for them.

But while that problem is slowly manifesting, another more persistent one is to be solved.

I can't locate Joker. After searching all the usual spots, I've come up empty handed. Since it's too late now to try and get some sleep, I change out of the Batsuit and head up to my office.

I have one last detail to take care of before I can rest for the night.

As Alfred reminds me too often, the life of a Wayne is never easy.

I enter my security code, then the retinal scanner, and finally the voice identification to pass through the last door and into my office.

As I walk in the lights come on automatically. Everything appears normal…except for my chair, which is turned toward the window.

Then, like some kind of black-and-white horror movie, the chair slowly turns…

"Well, _hiiiiiiiiiiiii_ _there_, Batsy," Joker drawls, comfortably seated in my office at Wayne Enterprises in the dead of night, scribbling away on a piece of paper. "Looks like you finally, ah, _caught up _to me. Bra_vo_."

I storm up to him, my winter coat swishing behind me. "What the hell are you doing here?" I growl.

"Waiting for _you. _Look, I drew a masterpiece!" Joker holds up several papers, each with doodles on them. "I don't know what it's going to be _called _yet, but here's the story." Joker clears his throat.

I glare at him. "I don't have time for stories. I've been hunting you down _all night_. How did you get in here?"

Joker gives me a surprisingly deadpan look. "Do you _really _need _me_ to answer that?" He shuffles his papers. "Now, _shush. _There'll betime for that story."

And to think—right now, I could be indulging my new hobby, making candles at home. I have two vanilla-scented candles that are ready to be made at this very moment. I could be waiting patiently for the wax to melt, slowly dipping the wicks into the container, watching the wax accumulate to the desired amount, the vanilla oil stirred in the mixture…

Many people would be surprised to hear _Bruce Wayne _of all people makes candles for recreation. They shouldn't be. It calms the mind, envelopes you in the strong but soothing fragrances, be they regular wax or herbs…lets you _think._

But instead, I'm here.

I slam my hands on the desk, and Joker moves the wheeling chair backwards, mildly alarmed.

"The hotel is nothing but burned rubble—"

"—Which was _your _idea, smarty-Bat!" Joker reminds me, grinning.

I continue "—And now we have only two…places: your hideout or my house."

Joker's eyes widen. "Why, _Batsy_—I never thought you _cared!_" He claps delightedly, accidentally crunching the papers as a result. He doesn't seem to notice.

I brush the stubby crayons on my desk aside. "We're going to have to come up with something else."

Joker leans back, a thoughtful look on his face. "…Y'know who could help?"

"Who?" I have a sinking feeling.

Joker grins. "_Al._"

--

Alfred isn't exactly pleased with me as I hurriedly usher Joker into the penthouse, closing the door behind me sharply.

"Nice to see _you_ again, Al," Joker says cheerily, as he gets comfortable in my favorite sofa yet again. "We've, ah, got a bit of an _issue _here, and…"

Alfred pinches the bridge of his nose and looks at me irritably. "Master Bruce, is this _really _necessary?"

"If we don't want him to blow up half of Gotham, unfortunately, yes." I sit down beside Alfred. "We're…stuck…in a 'your place or mine' situation."

"Normally, sir, I would say 'I told you so', but—"

"_See_, Batsy? _Al told you so._" Joker wags a condescending finger in my direction. "_Now _look what you've done. _Bad_ Batsy, no biscuit."

I sigh and rub my temples. "I don't have the patience to deal with your taunts right now."

Joker laughs. "And yet, you're _more _than happy to deal with this…_problem._"

Alfred clears his throat. "If I may suggest, sir, isn't it simply a matter of taking a room for the evening? In one of the finer hotels? _Discreetly_, of course."

Joker nods in approval. "Why didn't _we _think of that…?" He rubs his chin thoughtfully. "_Sooooo_…how about the _Chauve-Soiris_ downtown?"

Of _course _that would be the first one he'd choose.

"Too obvious."

"The Marigold?"

"The Mob owns it."

"How _about_…The Gotham?"

"That place isn't designed for subtlety."

Joker rolls his eyes. "You're not exactly…_known _for that virtue either, y'know. Fine. That little place by the bay?"

"…If you're talking about the Prewitt Building, not completed yet. That's under constant watch anyway."

Joker's eyebrows wiggle in an all-too-familiar way. "We could either _fix _that or…_take advantage _of it."

Typical. I sigh and try to find the (nearly dry) well of patience within me. "Actually, Joker…your house was very comfortable."

Why does admitting that make my skin crawl?

There's a moment of silence. Joker stares at me unblinkingly.

Joker grins. "Then my place it is!" He glances over at Alfred. "I'll, ah, have him back by morning. _Promise_."

Alfred raises his eyebrows, and glances at his watch. "Since you're here…and there are so few hours remaining before dawn…And I'm sure Master Bruce has no further patience for chasing you about Gotham…"

I nod, already feeling a headache come on at the very idea.

Joker pouts. "But it's _fun!_"

Alfred gives him a look I know very well—he's about to give advice. "Would you prefer 'Batsy' dead on his feet or awake and kicking?"

Joker blinks. "…_Oh._"

Alfred nods. "Precisely."

I try to get the conversation back to business, hoping to get rid of this headache by getting off the subject.

"Joker, have you encountered the Mob lately?"

Joker giggles. "Oh, _yes. _They tried to, ah, _bribe _me into getting rid of you, but…"

"But?"

A chilling giggle escapes Joker's lips. "_Buuuuut_…we had to, ah, _cut _the deal short."

Alfred adjusts his glasses, but I can see the grim amusement in his eyes before it fades away. "I'm glad to see your loyalty is _unwavering_, Mr. J."

"They ratted me out before. I'm not _stupid._" Joker snorts and reaches over to clap me on the shoulder. "Be_siiiiides_, who'd wanna rat out a fellow _freak?_"

"I'm touched." I roll my eyes and move away slightly, letting Joker's hand slide off my shoulder.

Alfred looks at me thoughtfully for a moment before speaking. "What was it the…now _ex_-messengers tried to bribe you with, Mr. J?"

Joker shrugs. "Money, fast cars, escort services, a place in, ah, _polite society. _Stupid things—stuff I can get _easily._" He laughs. "Well, okay, maybe not the _last _one…not that I care about _that. _As far as I'm concerned, _society _is…more a _dirge_…than a _ditty._"

I force my lips to stay in their usual, neutral frown, but it's surprisingly difficult. Unfortunately, Joker picks up on it.

"Too late—I _saw _that." Joker moves a little closer, pushing my lips up into a smile. "You _wanna _do _this_, but instead"—he lets go, and I return to frowning—"you do _this._ That's just _stubborn._"

"And your constant attempts to _make _me smile are equally stubborn."

"At least I'm trying to, ah, make a _change._ You'll…get _wrinkles _if you frown this much." Joker folds his arms over his chest, head cocked to one side. "And you don't want wrinkles at _thirty-three _or so, do ya?"

"I'll live." I stand up and head toward the kitchen. "I'm going to go get something to drink."

"Milk!" Joker calls. "In a _wine glass_."

"I'll be back in a minute." I turn to look at Alfred. "Could you…?"

"Of course, Master Bruce."


	41. Chapter 41: Joker

...I never, _ever_ thought this would happen again, but it did.

Unfortunately--as you may have guessed--the chapter I uploaded yesterday is the (in-progress) chapter _after_ this one. To all of you who were very, very confused, I'm sorry. To RoxasRocks, I'm also very sorry.

Hopefully this won't happen again.

Disclaimer: I don't own _The Dark Knight _or _Doctor Who. _I do own this plot.

**Chapter Forty-One: Joker**

* * *

"_Sooooooo…_what d'you _do _here for fun? Does Batsy even _have _fun?"

Al steeples his fingers together, a bit of, ah, _mirth _behind those eyes. "We play chess. Cards. Sometimes we watch _Dr. Who_. What do _you _like to do, sir? _Besides_, of course, fiddling while Gotham burns, sending everyone into a mass panic, causing as much damage as possible, and sending Master Bruce into a befuddled state with your…antics."

I can't help but laugh at _that _description. "_Befuddled, _hmm? I _like _that word. Well…let's _see. _I sew, dance, watch movies with the boys, go out to Betty's Pie shop once in awhile…collect magazines, take care of my cat…the list goes on. Oh, and I, ah, make sure people meet _Mr. Grim _on time."

"Wonderful." Al barely blinks. "So then, what would you like to do currently?"

I think for a moment. "Poker sounds fun."

Al gives me a look. "We'll play for _nuts._"

I giggle.

"_Almonds._"

I sigh. "Okay, _okay_, that's fine by me."

Al goes to a nearby set of drawers (without taking his eyes off me, sly _dog_) and takes out a deck of cards, handing them to me. Apparently there's a can of _almonds_ in there as well.

I start shuffling the deck, humming "Luck Be A Lady Tonight" under my breath. Al divides out the _almonds. _

I think I'll say _ahlmonds_ with a British accent from now on. It sounds so…_regal_, y'know?

Anyway…

"Color me _curious_"—I grin at the familiarity of cards slapping together—"but how ex_actly _did you guys even catch the Bat-Signal or whatever you call it…before it was, ah, _trashed _I mean."

"Well, mostly either Master Bruce or myself kept a close eye on the news--which we still do, of course. And a bit of technology, the details of which you need not concern yourself. It's highly effective. Or the Commissioner called us ahead of time." Al sighs. "You have no _idea _how many games of chess or cards were ruined by that whole affair. Still, it's what Master Bruce wants that counts…with a bit of insight along the way, of course."

I keep shuffling the cards, being nice and not looking at them (as if I _won't _win anyway).

"D'you think Batsy's still…_timely?_"

Al rubs his chin. "That, sir, is a very interesting question. Since you and Master Bruce have formed this…_affair_, if you will, the crime rate in Gotham has hit a middle ground. Recently, with the negotiations with the Mob, the crime rate has dropped even _lower._"

"Hmm." I shuffle the cards again, feeling them dance under my hands. "_Sooooo…_I'm doing a _good thing_, basically?"

"I wouldn't _quite _call it that, sir." Is that a _smirk _I see on Al's face?

I giggle. "'Course, _'course_." I shuffle a third time. "What _would _you call it then?"

"I would call it 'strange bedfellows', sir. But then, I don't doubt you have a unique variation of your own."

"I like your idea. It's got a nice…_ring _to it." I wave my hand in the air lazily to, ah, _accentuate _the point. "Like the title for a _romantic comedy_ or something…y'know? These two guys—they're in an interrogation room, and…"

Al doesn't even blink. "Shouldn't you be _shuffling_, sir?"

"Hmm? _Oh. _Gotcha. Let's see…_one _more time should do it." I spread the cards out then mush them together again, tapping the stack against the table to get them _just right._

"I'm curious, Mr. J—why shuffle _four _times, exactly?"

I shrug. "Once for every suit in the deck—hearts, spades, diamonds, and clubs. It's kind of a…_good luck charm_, I guess you could say." I set the cards in the center of the table. "And here we _are_, ready to go!"

"Mind if I join in?" Batsy says from the doorway, carrying my milk and a cup of what looks like tea. He turns to Al. "I'll get yours in a second—"

"No, no, Master Bruce, I'll get it. Take my seat." Al gets up and heads to the kitchen, leaving Batsy and I alone.

"…I'm guessing you know how Poker works?" I start dealing the cards.

"I know." Batsy picks up his cards and looks them over. "Incidentally, I have a score to settle with Alfred."

"Oh? Has he, ah, _pulled a fast one_?" I grin and look at my cards. "Perfect timing then, hmm?"

"He's won 999 times out of 1,000. So far." Batsy _almost _smirks. "Tonight I just might settle the score."

"But, ah…_I _might beat _you. _Then what, hmmm? You _pout_ and check a crime scene?"

Batsy raises his eyebrows. "I won't let you beat me."

I laugh. "Good answer. Spec_tac_ular, as the good Doctor might say."

Batsy sighs and shakes his head.

The game continues.

I look over my hand and grin. "_Sooooo…_show me what you've _got_, Mr. _I-Won't-Let-You-Beat-Me_!"

Batsy places his hand down—a straight. "I think this will do for a start."

…_Crap._ Crapcrap_crap. _

I put down my three of a kind. "Wanna hear a joke? Maybe it'll tickle what, ah, _funny bone _you _have_."

Batsy fiddles with his cards on the table before him.

"_Okaaaay_…two cartons of yogurt walk into a bar. The bartender—he's _cottage cheese_, see—he says 'We don't serve your kind here'. One of yogurt cartons argues 'Why not? We're _cultured _individuals!'"

Batsy shakes his head, expression never changing…but I _think _I saw the _sliiiightest _glint in his eyes. Score for me…

The game continues.

I put down my hand—a full house—and take a few almonds for myself. "What about _you_, hmmm? Got any jokes to tell?"

Batsy takes a few cards from the deck, looking thoughtful. "…Well, there's one that Alfred used to tell me as a kid. A railway porter asks the passenger 'Did you miss your train, sir?' The passenger says 'No, I didn't like the look of it, so I chased it out of the station.'"

I can't help laughing at _that _one. And I thought _my _jokes were bad. I laugh even _harder _when it turns out I have the winning hand for this round—four of a kind.

Al sits in—and proves that Batsy was _right_. The guy's good.

Whatever.

And so on and on and _on _we go, with Al keeping an eye on things. In the end, it turns out that we have a _tie_.

Unfortunately, it looks like daylight's coming, so I have to get going. Too bad. I wanted to see if Batsy would _ever_ get to beat Al…

As I get ready to leave, Batsy stands and follows me out—awfully, ah, _charitable _of him. Very _gentlemanly. _He doesn't look all that _glum _about our game, which is…_interesting. _We walk _almost _side by side to the door.

"…Joker?"

"Mm-_hmmmm_?" I turn to look at him, standing in front of the door.

"What did you mean by your ideal present 'not being up my alley'?"

I laugh and stuff my hands in my pockets. "_That_ will have to wait 'til spring."

Batsy scowls. "Spring won't be here for a long time."

I shrug. "Y'know what they say—time _flies_ when you're having _fun_. Spring'll be here sooner than you think."


	42. Chapter 42: Joker

Thanks to the unfortunate slip-up of last weekend, this chapter is probably familiar to you all…at least parts of it. Hopefully that didn't spoil your fun for the rest of this chapter…

On a bittersweet note, I would like to say HAPPY BIRTHDAY, DEAR HEATH LEDGER! (Unfortunately I missed Micheal Caine and Gary Oldman's birthdays, as well as Christian Bale's. Next time!)

Disclaimer: I don't own _The Dark Knight_, _Pink Floyd_, "Yesterday" by _The Beatles _(bless them), _Los Toreadors _by G. Bizet, or "Iron Man" by _Black Sabbath_. Only this plot.

**Chapter Forty-Two: Joker**

* * *

At _first_, it seemed like spring would _never _show up, but…_ta-da! _Here it _is. _

This was one of the more…_interesting _winters, let me tell you. We had a warm house, which meant no more waking up _freezing_. Batsy was _determined _to keep our meetings out on the streets instead of in my comfy bed. (That plan didn't _last_, of course). I found out through a few, ah, _entertaining _games of chess and poker that Al can sing a _mean _version of _The Beatles' _"Yesterday." And the Mob, despite their (very _poor_) efforts, managed to at least _attempt _to be good ol' boys.

But now that winter's gone, it's time to…_celebrate._

--

I laugh wildly as Seymour and I _swerve_ through the streets of Gotham, duffel bags stuffed with money in the backseat of the van.

My Bentley is for me _alone_ to use, see. It's too _special _for something as simple as a _robbery._

Oh, _Maroni_, you thought your _phar_macy in_vest_ment would be _yours alone. _You thought I wouldn't _dare _sneak into your posh ol' palace and find your safe. You thought you wouldn't have to deal with _me_ again.

Never, _ever _throw away a bad penny. It'll always come back…with _gum_ on your shoe.

"Hey, Seymour—did you _see _the way those wimps freaked when they got the _joke?_" I clap my hands delightedly as Seymour chuckles and lurches into another lane.

Ten of my boys got caught in a mousetrap. _My _mousetrap.

Everything was going _swell. _Most of the company's oh-so-_slick _workers were either dead, unconscious, or going _ape_, and we had looted the place, finding not one, not _two_, but _three _safes to nab. We were hauling the money off to the car (it wasn't _much_, but it was more than enough) and all but _skipping_ as we went—even Wobbles, the chubbiest of the boys.

_Soooo…_I decided that there just wasn't enough _room _in the van for everybody. We're gonna need to, ah, make _space. _

"Well, boys, looks like we need a little…_competition. _Whoever's still alive gets to sit in the backseat. Fire away." With that, I climbed into the car, Seymour at the wheel_._

"_Drive_, Seymour," I ordered, waving at Wobbles.

"But Boss—"

"_No. Buts._" I pulled out my Glock and pointed it at Wobbles' confused face. "_Drive_, or I'll

put _you _out there with 'em."

Seymour gulped and did as he was told, and gunshots ensued.

Whether those idiots are actually _alive _or not is anyone's guess. The screams were fairly, ah, _reliable._

…_That_ was how I began Spring Cleaning.

I toss my "frowny-clown" mask into the air, watching as it flies off into a jogger's line of vision. I've never _seen _someone jump that high…

I'm wearing my "human" mask underneath that cheap plastic, of course—just in case I have to take a leak at some little gas station. There's nothing _quite_ like being put under arrest while Mr. Giggles is trying to answer, ah, "Nature's _call_".

"Aren't you _glad _to be alive, Seymour ol' pal?" I ask, as the money bags bounce in the back.

Seymour gets the hint. "…Yeah, Boss! I sure am!" He lets out a whoop of glee as we bypass a cop car, blowing raspberries at the driver as we go.

"Glad to hear it," I say with a grin, cranking up the volume on our radio.

There's _nothing_ quite like listening to _Pink Floyd_ on the first day of Spring, with the sun on your skin and the wind in your hair…and a _Bat_ on the brain, of course. But then, these days he's _always _on my mind.

_Sweet_, right? "When's the wedding, Mr. J?, you ask? _Wrong._

In a way, I'm…_proud _of Batsy. He's been making things a _lot _more interesting than they were. More of the old-school thing going on—less _Vigilantes Gone Wild _and more _Bang-Pow-Blammo!_, which is something I'm…_okay _with. I at least wanted to have a few more rounds of poker with him and Al.

But that's okay. We've got _allllll_ the time in the world.

As we pass the city cemetery—which is hardly peaceful, given how it's still in the middle of the _smogandbustle_ of the place—I suddenly want to visit two _old friends_ of mine.

"Seymour, stopstop_stop_ the car. I've got a lovely couple to see!" I giggle as we lurch forward, digging around in my pockets until I find what I'm looking for. "_Ah. _Perfect."

I hop out the car, gesturing for Seymour to, ah, make himself _comfy _for awhile…and keep the money _safe_, of course. I grin at the lady selling flowers by the entrance, and buy a charming little bouquet of white roses off her before heading inside. I think I creeped her out a tad. _Oops._

By this point, I know exactly where I'm headed. A turn past the dead soldiers, go straight past the ex-Mayors, and…_there. _

The grass brushes wetly against my legs as I kneel down in front of Harvey and Rachel's graves.

There's plenty of flowers from the _other_ good sheeple of Gotham—lillies, roses, a few daisies—and even a little campaign button. _Cute._

I'm sure they, ah, _appreciate _the sentiment. I know _I _do. It lets me know I have the audiences'…_undivided attention._

I smile at the gravestones, idly tracing the names and, ah, the little _tearjerker _etchings on the cold stones ("We still believe" and "our Angel who was taken too soon"). It's been awhile since my last visit. I hope they're not…_lonely._

But then, they've got each other for company. Lovers until the end…how _sappy._

I breathe in the fresh Spring air, letting it slither out in a "_Hiiiiiiiii_."

The cemetery grows even…_stiller _than before.

I place the roses on Rachel's grave. "Thought you might like these. It's _Spring _today—isn't that great? Now you and Harvey don't have to cuddle in _close _during those cold nights…but then _again_, that's more of a _good_ thing, hmm?"

I pat the mound of dirt that covers Harvey, grinning "down" at him. "But don't you worry, _Har-Har-Haaaarvey_, I've got a little something for you too!"

I take the silver dollar out of my coat pocket, scratching it with my Cupid knife (a _real com_pli_ment_) into an "H" before flipping it down onto Harvey's grave.

"Sure, it's not _your _coin, but maybe you'll find some use for it. Like the _other_ ones." I put my Cupid back in my coat and look up at the sky.

Harvey and Rachel aren't exactly, ah, _talk-a-holics_, but I'm sure they're listening…_wherever _they are. And since they're such _good listeners_, I can talk about whatever I want.

So I talk to them about the Mob, Gotham, the boys, what I had for breakfast, my "Spring Cleaning", how Gordon's _really _working his ass off trying to keep everything under control, and Batsy. For giggles, I decide to go into _painstaking _detail about the _fun _Batsy and I had this Christmas.

I can see the poor little angels turning red in the afterlife as _clear as day_. Maybe Rachel's crying sugary tears, while Harvey tries to make her feel better.

It's a…_soothing _image.

Soon, though, there's nothing else to really talk about, so I'm left just _sitting _here. I stare at the rose bouquet as it rustles in the wind, and can't help but feel a bit…_chilly _all of a sudden.

"Well, looks like I've gotta _skedaddle_." I brush my hands off on my pants and stand up, looking down at the graves in satisfaction. "Let's talk again soon, hmm?"

I'm always back. Whenever I get the chance, I have these little, ah, _get-togethers _with my two _works of art. _In retrospect, I _really _shouldn't have…_let them go _so quick. They're like an old album you thought was trash, and then come to find out—whaddya _know_, they're a priceless antique with never-before-heard tunes!

But I _did. _So I get to tell them _all about _what they're missing instead. It's…_fun._

But somehow I get the feeling I won't, ah, be _back _here for awhile. Things are _never _this peaceful around Gotham.

I hear someone else approaching and whip around, ready for anything—only to find _Batsy and Al_ heading back from another set of gravestones—the Wayne's, I'm sure.

As soon as Batsy realizes where I've been _sitting_, he goes absolutely…_livid. _Al doesn't look too happy either.

"What are you doing here," Batsy asks, hands clenched into familiar _fists. _And if my ears do not, ah, _deceive _me, he almost slipped into that _lovely _Batman Growl.

"Oh, just giving the _Harv_-meister and _Rachel_-dearest a visit," I say, patting the headstones fondly. "Did _you? _I'm sure they were _thrilled _to see you again!"

"You don't deserve to be near them." Batsy's got one hell of a _furrow _between his handsome 'brows. Any chance of being wrinkle_less _in a few years has just gone _waaay_ down…

"Oh, well, 'scuse _me_ for just dropping by." I wave and turn on my heel, more than ready to leave. "I was just off to lunch anyway. I've got a, ah, _hankering _for some pie…"

"Don't play innocent, Joker." I can hear Batsy moving closer, and turn around just in time to dodge out of the way as he lunges for my arm.

"Temper, _temper_," I say chidingly. "Would _Rachel _like you acting like this? I don't _think sooooo_!"

"_Shut up!_"

I gasp mockingly. "I'm…_enthralled _at your, ah, _verbal repartee _Batsy!"

Batsy's _really _getting riled up—I guess I'd better, ah, _blow this popsicle stand _while I can.

"Later, Bat and Butler. It's been…_swell._" I wave in the direction of Harvey and Rachel's graves. "You two sleep tight, now!"

I'm whistling as loudly as I can (_Los Toreadors_), but I can still hear Al say softly as I tramp away "Master Bruce, I suggest that we leave as well."

--

Seymour's been a good boy. He's still waiting for me, scream-singing (badly) along with a Heavy Metal band on the radio.

"Seymour!" I tap the car window.

He just keeps on screeching. "_IIIIIIII AM IRONNNNN MAAAAAAAAAAN…_"

"_Seymour._"

And screeching…nice guitar impression…

Finally, I step in front of the car, slam my hands on the window, smoosh my face against it, and scream "_SEYMOUR!_"

Seymour lets out a_ screech_ any teenage girl would envy and switches the radio off. "Wh-what's up, Boss?"

"We're going to get some _pie_," I say, climbing in to ride shotgun. "Let's get rollin'."

I watch as Batsy and Al walk across the street…and can't help but notice the, ah, _suspicious _black Sedan that _just so happens _to be nearby.

Which just so happens to be _tailing _everyone's favorite Bat and Butler.

Who just so _happen_ to be heading toward a more, ah, _secluded _part of town. Near the city bookstore, actually. Fewer witnesses that way…

I don't…_believe_ in coincidences.

"On second thought, Seymour…pie'll have to wait."


	43. Chapter 43: Bruce

Disclaimer: I don't own _The Dark Knight_, or any of the books mentioned here. Only this plot.

**Chapter Forty-Three: Bruce**

* * *

"I can't believe him, Alfred," I say, feeling the anger claw at my throat. "I can't _believe _that bastard!"

"Unfortunately, sir, I believe Mr. J has just as much right to visit Ms. Dawes' grave as you." Alfred rests his hand on my shoulder, trying to calm me down.

"But he killed them."

"…Would you have reacted similarly had it been someone _else's_ grave, sir?"

I see his point, and decide not to answer.

"Exactly, sir."

We walk along in silence, and I try to remember where we parked the car. We're in a more secluded part of the city—a cobblestone walkway that leads to one of the city's many bookstores. It's peaceful, but I'm still out-of-sorts after finding Joker in the cemetery. I'm thankful for Alfred's company—he's the only reason I can keep everything under control these days.

"You know perfectly well he'll come back later tonight, sir, and everything will patch itself up on its own. You two are, shall we say, _unique _in that respect."

I sigh. "I wish he hadn't come to Gotham. I wish all this hadn't happened."

"But it _did_, sir. And now you have to face it." Alfred chuckles. "And if I may say so, sir, 'if wishes were fishes'…"

"…'I'd be a starving man'." I finish the proverb with barely a thought, smiling at the memories it brings on. "Rachel kept that in mind more than me, I think."

"Perhaps she did. But then, perhaps her wishes were more attainable."

We continue walking in companionable silence, our shoes _clunk-clunk_ing against the cobblestones. I can feel the kindness from Alfred—my oldest friend and guardian—seeping into me, calming me down and making my thoughts more tolerable.

In the past few weeks, I've felt something change inside me. Parts of me that had once fit perfectly into my mind were becoming disjointed, not quite so fitting anymore. As if a part of me, a part I had been hiding, was starting to break free, piece by piece, like a chick cracking open the shell.

Alfred's been doing his best to keep me together—and I'm grateful for that. He's my moral compass, I guess you could say.

"Master Bruce?"

"Yes, Alfred?"

"Do you want me to add any more books to the list here?" Alfred holds out a scrap of paper, a pen already in hand.

"I think we have all of them. _Peter Pan_…Homer's _Odyssey_…" I run down the list, satisfied. "Yes, that's all of them. Mind if I keep it with me?"

"Not at all, Master Bruce. I was hoping to look for some cookbooks myself."

I smile and put the list in my coat pocket.

"Where should we put them then, sir? We only have so many places for the books…we're running short on space."

I shrug. "We'll find a spot."

Alfred gives me a small smile. "Perhaps I'll put them in a bag for you next time you 'sleep over' Mr. J's, sir?"

I roll my eyes. "I'd rather you didn't, Alfred."

Alfred chuckles. "Very well, sir."

There is another period of silence, but a more welcoming sort of feeling. I like walking with Alfred—it reminds me of my childhood, of simpler times.

But something is twisting that soft, warm feeling. Something is setting me on edge, making me wary. Alfred doesn't look as calm as he appears either—there's a familiar tenseness in his shoulders that warns me without even saying a word.

Something is wrong. I resist the urge to look behind me—that's an easy way to be killed in Gotham. In Gotham, your assassin might come from any direction. The point is that you're quite dead and nobody really cares.

With that grim thought in mind, I turn to Alfred. "Alfred?"

"Yes, Master Bruce?" Alfred's smile is wary.

"Have you given up on me yet?"

Alfred's smile becomes more genuine, as he prepares to say the familiar, soothing response.

But he doesn't get a chance. As quickly as ever, he pushes me out of the way, shouting for me to get down.

Pain erupts in my legs, and I find myself toppling to the ground, reaching out for Alfred…

And darkness greets me.


	44. Chapter 44: Bruce? Batman? Batsy?

Luckily, there will be more time for updates this week. Be on the lookout…

Disclaimer: I don't own _The Dark Knight_, or a certain singing someone. I do own this plot and The Station.

**Chapter Forty-Four: Bruce? Batman? Batsy?**

* * *

I open my eyes, and a long white hallway greets me.

I look around, trying to figure out where I am, but there's nothing telling about this place—all I can do is move forward. There isn't even a way to turn around.

So I carefully step forward, feeling hard, lukewarm marble tiles under my bare feet. I stop and look around once again—just in case I activated some kind of trap—but there is only silence.

Until I look ahead and see someone waiting for me some distance away.

He looks strangely familiar, from what I can see of him—tall, with light brown hair, and dark brown eyes. His friendly grin automatically puts me at ease as he turns around and walks down the hall, long slender hands in his pockets.

Having no other choice, I follow him, noticing that the hallway is slowly growing bigger, with cool fresh air beckoning us forward.

The man is singing softly, his deep husky voice echoing around us: "_Waltzing Matilda, Waltzing Matilda, you'll come a-waltzing Matilda with me…_"

"Excuse me," I call, trying to keep up. "Where are we going?"

The man turns to look at me, expression curious. "Did you have a particular place in mind?"

I'm about to answer him when the hallway is suddenly enveloped in light—and I'm at a railway station.

The chrome train is stopped on the tracks, smoke belching from its stack solemnly. All around on the wooden platform—as white as bone—are round tables covered in white linen.

The man moves gracefully over to the platform and waves as he steps on board and out of sight.

All of the tables appear to be empty…except one.

My mouth drops open in shock. _It can't be them. _

"…Rachel? Harvey?"

"In the flesh…well, sort of," Harvey says, grinning easily at me as he gestures to their table. "Have a seat. We've got a lot to go over."

They look exactly the way I remember them—both of them are dressed for success in their business suits (how Harvey can make a pink and brown striped tie look cool is unknown to me), and Harvey's face is whole again. Rachel has no scars either—nothing to tell of how she met her end.

I try to stay calm. I need to stay calm.

I carefully sit across from Rachel, marveling at how comfortable the chairs are. I can't figure out what they're made of—only that they're soft and easy to sink into. "Where arewe, exactly?"

Rachel smiles. "We're wherever you want to be." She points to the train. "And the train there will take you wherever you want to go."

"Oh." I clear my throat. "Have you…met Mom and Dad yet?"

"Yes, Bruce," Rachel says softly. "They're fine. They felt it might be better for Harvey and I to meet you here, since—well, we've seen Joker firsthand, like you."

The name _Bruce _stirs nothing in me. It feels like the name of a character I've been playing in a production. It leaves me cold.

I decide to ignore the feeling.

I nod, still uneasy. "…Does that mean I'm still alive?"

Harvey looks sheepish. "…Unfortunately we can't answer that one. That may sound ridiculous, but this is…'_between_'…places. You aren't 'alive' or 'dead' until you either board the train or go back the way you came."

I get the feeling I'm running on borrowed time, and decide not to ask too many questions.

I break the silence. "So…what do you want to talk about?"

Rachel gives me that sad smile I grew so familiar with in those last days of her life.

"Your masks."

"My masks…you mean, as in Batman?"

"Not _exactly_," Harvey says, leaning an elbow on the table. "You've noticed, haven't you?"

"Noticed what?" I feel uneasy.

"You're _changing_, Bruce." Rachel's sad smile makes me shiver. "You aren't Bruce anymore, but you aren't Batman either—you're almost getting too _big _for Batman, as if you're growing up all over again in some other way."

"No I'm not." I swallow dryly. "I'm still—I _am_ Batman!"

"No, Bruce," Harvey replies, his voice gentle yet stern at the same time. "Don't lie to yourself. Not again."

"Bruce…" Rachel reaches across the table and puts her hand on mine. "Please try to understand. You've been wearing masks for a long time. I think—_we _think—that it's high time you take them off and show the world who you really are."

I suddenly feel very tired. "…What if 'who I really am' isn't…well…"

Harvey laughs softly. "That's up to you."

There's a companionable silence for a moment. Then another question rises to my mind, one that I hate to ask:

"…What about Joker?"

Rachel and Harvey glance at each other. They remind me of my parents, when they weren't sure if they wanted to tell me something. It's the "Do You Think He's Ready?" look that everyone encounters sooner or later.

Rachel looks out at the train, away from me. "…That's also up to you."

"Why can't you give me a solid answer?" I'm feeling more irritated by the second. "Why are you giving me advice and then telling me it's _my _job?"

Rachel turns and gives me an exasperated look. "Because we aren't part of your _life_ anymore. We don't know what'll happen to you when you make the choices you're going to make. All we can do is give you our thoughts now, and let _you_ decide what to do with yourself."

She smiles. "And there's at least one thing we know you'll choose without our prompting."

I look at her. I've missed her terribly these past years—I've felt guilt over her death, and guilt over Harvey's subsequent turn to madness. They say I have a choice—but I'm not sure I want to make that choice.

"I'm staying."

Rachel shakes her head sadly. "No, Bruce. You aren't ready yet. You _know _you're not ready yet."

"I have nobody _left_—"

"Oh, yes you do," Harvey says sternly, taking a familiar coin out of his pocket. "You _know _you do. And he's being oddly patient. You should repay him."

"I'm not _going_, Harvey," I growl, bracing myself. Despite my determined tone, another, bigger part of me is becoming anxious, needing _something. _

Harvey just grins that cocky grin of his and flips the coin. "Heads you go."

I already know what the outcome is going to be. It's written all over Rachel's pained expression.

"That's mean, Harvey," Rachel says with a sigh before taking my hand. "Listen, you'll come back here sooner than you think. And when you do, we'll be waiting for you. _All _of us."

It's then that I notice an all-too-familiar old man waving from the train at me. I bolt and try to get to the railway platform, my throat constricting as I try to scream his name—

But I'm already being pulled back, flying backwards like a piece of lint in a vacuum, sliding away from Rachel and Harvey…

"_I'll come back,_" I roar, as darkness overtakes me. "_So help me, I'll come back!_"

I'm going backward through the long hallway, as if I'm on rewind, with a small boy in a black Bat mask next to me.

"Who are you?" I ask, feeling my voice echo in the room.

The boy looks at me, the mask slipping over his eyes. He pushes it back up and smiles a plastic smile, his black t-shirt and pants fluttering on the non-existent air. His skin is pale, but his fingers are bandaged and bruised.

"You know who _I_ am. The _real _question is…who are you?" The boy's voice startles me in its familiar dark growl.

I begin to answer, but stop. The name _Bruce _dies in my throat and my heart. I try _Batman_, but that name falters as well.

"…I'm not quite sure yet." I turn my head to look behind me. We're almost to the end.

The Batman-Child snorts, folding his arms across his chest. "That clown was right about something—we were _always_ terrible at lying."

"And now?"

The Batman-Child shrugs his shoulders. "What's to lie about anymore?"

In a flash, he's gone.

The world grows dark again.


	45. Chapter 45: Batsy?

Out of curiosity, after this fic is finished…how does a soundtrack list sound with a "Author's Final Words On The Subject"?

Disclaimer: I don't own _The Dark Knight_, Sid Vicious, or _Queen_. Incidentally, the song lyrics in this chapter are from "Play The Game", "Bohemian Rhapsody", and "The Vision". I own this plot.

**Chapter Forty-Five: Batsy…?**

* * *

All around me is darkness, with only snatches of _Queen _songs for company.

_It's so easy, when you know the rules_

_It's your life…_

I feel myself move closer to the sounds, but am distracted by another tune:

_Goodbye, everybody, I've got to go _

_Gotta leave you all behind and face the truth…_

I follow that tune—then hear another:

_I had a dream_

_A vision when I was young_

_A dream of sweet illusion_

_A glimpse of hope and sanity…_

I feel my head is going to split in two. The tunes spin and slam around in my mind, beckoning me this way and that. I feel as though I'm stuck on a spinning top, going out of control.

_**—**_

I open my eyes.

There's something warm against my hand. Something warm underneath the slickness of plastic. I look up at the ceiling and find Sid Vicious smirking at me from a black and white poster, dressed in leather and playing his guitar as though it's a part of his body, recently plastered there with what looks like never-ending slices of scotch tape. In red pen, someone has scribbled "THAT'S MY BOY" over his crotch. I can only guess who. The drapes are drawn, but I can tell there is sunlight behind them.

I turn my head and find myself face-to-face with a white skirt and a familiar long-fingered hand gripping mine. The plastic exam glove covers his hand. I look over, and find Joker—dressed in a _nurse uniform _of all things—lounging half-asleep in a purple inflatable chair, one leg hanging over the armrest. His eyebrows are twitching—he must be dreaming.

I lift my head up gingerly and find another shocking sight—Joker's "boys" are sleeping, strewn around the room. They're in chairs with newspapers and _Playboy _magazines still in hand, or with cards pooling at their feet; or on the floor, in jumbled up piles. They look like recently discarded toys, waiting for their child to pick them up again.

There's a _Queen _CD lying by a CD player. Now my strange "mental tunes" make sense.

I can see Schiff curled up next to Joker's chair, snoring softly. A ball of gray fur is nestled on his lap. It must be the cat whose food dish I've seen before.

The cat's ears twitch. It pokes its head up, blinks owlishly at me with orange pumpkin-colored eyes, and lets out a surprised chirp.

"_Good morning,_" I mouth at it, and the cat yawns in response.

Joker twitches in his sleep and mutters something about frying pans. His eyes flicker briefly.

I squeeze his hand slightly, and his eyes snap open—a wild, chocolate brown—and he is instantly awake.

"Well good _morning_, dear patient o' _mine_," Joker says with a grin, getting up and handing me a glass of water. "For awhile there I thought I was, ah, waiting on a _corpse_."

"Glad to disappoint you," I reply, struggling to sit up. "What happened…exactly?"

Before Joker can answer, the rest of Joker's "boys" wake up and start babbling amongst themselves. "He's up! He's _up!_ Isn't that _great_, Boss?"

Schiff looks ready to throw himself at me—not a great prospect, judging by how stiff I am. "I'm making soup! Soup's good?"

Everyone starts getting even _louder _after that. Joker closes his eyes and keeps hold of my hand, his lips curled into a "you're-trying-my-patience" grin. Finally, when the noise reaches a screeching crescendo, he lets loose.

"_BOYS_, it would be _great _if you all could…go out and get some, ah, _groceries_ for us. We're running out, _aren't we?_"

The henchmen nod and scurry off, leaving us alone. The room still reverberates with their noisy presence. I hand Joker back the glass, which he puts to one side.

Joker sighs with relief.

"Joker, _what happened._"

"Okay. Okay, okay, _okay._ What _happened_, Batsy? I'll tell you what _happened. _You and Al flounced off to the bookstore, and you got into a, ah, _pickle._"

"Pickle? _Joker…what happened?_" I put more force behind my words—though I don't feel forceful at the moment.

"A black car was tailing you. A car with '_suspicious_' written _aaaaall _over it." Joker wiggles his fingers for effect.

"Black car? Who?"

"_Patience_, my young bat."

"_Joker…!_"

"Okay, okay, _Gawd_…So I followed in _my_ car—y'know, the van? The one you nearly _squashed?_ And before I knew it, some Mob creeps hopped out and…"

He pauses—for effect I'm sure—and my patience is running thin.

"—And started shootin' _away_ at you!"

I close my eyes. "…Alfred?"

Joker fidgets uncomfortably. "He, ah…didn't do so hot."

I scowl. "How bad?"

"He took lots of bullets for you. I _tried _to get you both outta there as fast as I could, but…"

"I see." I open my eyes and stare up at Sid Vicious again. He looks smugly down at me, as though I shouldn't be asking for answers I already know. "What happened then?"

"_Welllll…_I brought you to Gotham City Hospital…_both _of you. And, well, as soon as they saw their precious _prince_—that's _you_—they hopped to it. Un_fort_unate_ly_, Al didn't make it to the operating table. _You_, on the other hand, _did _make it to surgery without any…_complications_."

I force myself to not think about Alfred—not yet.

Joker pulls at the drapes, and they roll open, exposing the bright sunlight. He toys with the tassels, looking out the window.

"I…did a lot of_ pacing_. I mean, I'm not a big _fan_ of hospitals myself." He laughs softly. "Well, except for things like _this._"

He points to his nurse uniform, thrusting his hip out for good measure so that the skirt fabric ripples over his tanned leg. For a brief moment I wonder if he's wearing any underwear—and catch a glimpse of white satin French knickers.

"Cute." I lazily point to the peeking underwear, and Joker chuckles.

"_Anyway_, I was actually _patient _for the twelve hours it took for them to patch you up. Cute surgeon, by the way. But don't you worry—I'm a little…_crazy _for you."

"How bad was it?" I carefully begin to feel around for bandages. I find several.

"You were hit in the right thigh, and a few other places. But your leg was the _worst_."

Joker looks back at me, his expression unreadable.

"A little, ah, _problem_ they had with a…_big_ artery. You damn near _died_, y'know. You wouldn't stop bleeding." He giggles, and his eyes grow dark. "You were like that—that _commercial. _The blood just kept _going and going_…_and going and going and going_…the van was _covered _with it…"

"Joker…?"

He shakes his head from side to side, as though to get rid of a nightmare.

"So, ah, _yeah. _They patched you up—but they…_noticed _things. You have _way _too many scars and bumps and bruises for the average playboy."

I can't help but smile softly at that. "I mostly have you to thank for that."

Joker grins back. "You're welcome. They put two and two together, and…I only _just _got you out of there before some idiot called the GCPD. I brought you here, been keeping you nice and _warm_, changed your bandages, and…here we are. Fade to black, ending credits."

I lie back on the bed and close my eyes. "…Could you close the drapes? I need to think."

Joker nods. "Gotcha. I'll, ah, be in the bathroom. Holler if you need me."

He walks out of the room, white skirt swishing as he goes. I'm alone with my thoughts.

_I don't want to be alone. But…_

I cover my face with my hands, feeling a tremor wrack my body. It grows and grows until I'm shaking uncontrollably, making strange muffled noises behind my hands.

…_Alfred is dead. And I couldn't help him._

I try to fight the memories back, memories of Alfred bandaging my bruises from childhood, Alfred trying to teach Rachel and I to cook pancakes for Mother and Father, Alfred comforting me after nightmares, Alfred giving advice as I put on the Kevlar suit, Alfred playing Poker with me in the late hours of the evening…

Worst of all, however, is the constant replaying of his comforting words:

_Have you given up on me yet, Alfred?_

_Never._

I hear a strange deep groaning noise, and it takes me a moment to realize it came from me. I try to hold the sounds back, but they fight past my teeth and pierce the air.

"I _told _you, _holler if you need me_," Joker says. The bed creaks softly as he sits beside me. "Hey, now. _Hey._"

"_Damn…_" I manage to say, my eyes squeezed shut.

"If I knew how, ah, _angsty _you'd be when you woke up, I would've left you to bleed. But guess _what_, _Bruce? _I _didn't. _And now—unless you want me to, ah, _put you out of your misery_—you're going to have to _deal_."

I open my eyes—my vision is blurry. I struggle to sit up, trying to see Joker.

"…What did you call me?"

Joker's red lips twitch into a mocking, familiar smile. "Bruce."

I shake my head. "Don't call me that." I try to reach out, grab him by the shoulder. "Don't you _dare _call me that."

Joker looks surprised. "Would you like _Batsy_, then?"

I rub my temples. "…I don't know. I just…don't know right now." I feel myself shaking again.

"C'mere." Joker moves next to me on the bed, puts his arm around my shoulder. "You're a bit out of it right now, I know. Just close your eyes, and get some rest. We'll try some of Schiff's soup later, okay?"

I nod as Joker's body heat seeps through me, and I close my eyes.


	46. Chapter 46: Batsy?

And now, back to our usual Saturday morning schedule…

Disclaimer: I don't own _The Dark Knight_, or the books mentioned here. I do own this plot.

**Chapter Forty-Six: …Batsy?  
**-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It's surprising what sleep and a bowl of warm chicken noodle soup can do. And pain medication.

"This is great soup," I say, nodding at Schiff's pleased expression. "Thanks." I raise my bowl to him.

Schiff beams as he scampers out the door, humming a tuneless melody. He's kind enough to close the door behind him.

"Glad to see you're feeling a bit more…_lively_," Joker says, his arm still around my shoulder. "I was a _liiiittle _worried there for a bit."

I raise an eyebrow. "_That's_ shocking. A guy like you doesn't seem to have the _ability_ to worry."

Joker looks at me shrewdly. "…Did you just call me a 'guy'?"

I blink. "Sure. What of it?"

Joker scratches his head and grins. "Didn't think you had the _ability_ for slang."

I shake my head and smile at my bowl of soup. "Near-death experiences can do that to you."

"We're gonna need to change your bandages soon, y'know. I think you'll be able to take a bath soon."

"A bath would be great," I say, running a hand through my hair. I feel like a grease ball.

"You'll probably, ah, need my _help_ getting into the tub. Just to warn you." Joker leans his chin on my shoulder, his fingers drumming against my other shoulder. "Feelin' any better?"

"Better than I was."

Joker had even been "kind" enough to have a bedpan for me to use. It had been a bit difficult at first, but I had managed. It gave Joker a bit of a laugh, at any rate.

"Good, good." Joker climbs off the bed and walks toward the First Aid kit nearby. "Bandage time!"

"Great." I help him get the covers off me, eying the bandages for the first time. "They did a good job."

"They, ah, had no other _choice_." Joker chuckles. "This might be a bit…_uncomfortable_, just to give you a heads-up."

"Ah." I nearly jump as he starts unraveling the gauze, forcing me to lift my legs. "_Ah. _You weren't kidding."

"Figured you wouldn't want to, ah, be _unprepared_. Feeling okay, anyway?" Joker tosses the gauze into the trashcan, one long tendril poking out of the lid like a yellow tentacle.

"I'll live." I can't help but wince as he begins picking at the sticky bandage on my right thigh. "How long have I been out, by the way?"

"Two days or so. Hold _still_, will you? It's not like I'm _tickling _you or anything…" Joker rolls his eyes at me and slowly pulls the bandage away. "I think we're going to have to get _you _out of bed sometime soon. Your back must be _killing _you."

"It would be great to get up," I say, watching coolly as Joker applies a new bandage to my quickly-healing scar. The skin is yellow from the disinfectant the doctors must have placed on me, and the wound is still new and black. "I feel weak like this…"

"It won't take you long 'till you're nice and _healthy_ again, no worries!" Joker finishes bandaging me up, grinning at me. "Nurse J's…_guarantee_."

"Good." I close my eyes and sigh. "Speaking of guarantees…what happened to the guy who tried to call the GCPD?"

Joker scratches his head. He actually looks slightly ashamed as he looks off to the side. "Y'know…I've done _better. _I mean, there's only so much you can _do _with a telephone cord and a pudding cup…"

I snort. "I see. Well, that's one more crime Gordon will have your head for."

Joker grins. "What about you?"

"I'm considering it." I stretch carefully. "…The bath?"

Joker shrugs. "Maybe. We'll have to see about that." He carefully climbs back onto the bed and beside me, where he was before. "Hey…you don't, ah, _mind _that the boys and I did your shopping _for _you, do you?"

"What?" I open my eyes again. He can't mean what I think he means…

"Figured you'd want _something _to keep you busy for a few days…" And like magic, Joker pulls a beautiful, leather-bound copy of _Peter Pan _out of the pocket of his nurse uniform. "…So when I found that _list _in your pocket when I, ah, _picked you up_, I decided I'd be _charitable _for once…though finding _The Odyssey _was _waaaaay _more difficult than it should've been."

I stare at the forest-green cover, reaching out to touch it. Joker hands it to me, and I carefully crack open the book, flipping the golden pages to the first chapter. I look at him, feeling suspicious for some reason.

"There's more, too," Joker says with a grin. "Everything on your list, we got."

"Through _legal _means, I hope," I say, leveling him a warning look.

Joker laughs. "Oh, _c'mon_, Batsy, what does it _matter _how I, ah, _acquired _the stuff? Just…_use _'em."

I look back at the ornate "Chapter One" in front of me. "Want me to read to you?"

Joker shrugs. "Could be fun."

"I'm kidding, of course."

I turn my attention to the book and find myself in a smoky London, which is soon not to be the setting at all, but Neverland. It doesn't take long before I finish the first chapter and put it aside for now.

"_So._" Joker brings my attention back to him. "Tired yet?"

"I want to see if I can stay up awhile longer."

"I've got a chess board…or we could play Poker…_or_ we could talk a bit about what your, ah, _new look _should be. After all, according to the Mob, you've been…_bumped off._ They've even had a 'funeral' for you…and Al, of course."

"Did you go?"

Joker snorts. "Nah. I was having too much fun playing doctor _here. _Besides, I…_liked _Al. He was funny. I wanna keep him _alive _in my head."

"I see." I look down at my hands and try to focus. "…I'd like to get up now."

"Lemme, ah, get your _carriage_," Joker says with a grin, climbing up and walking over to a pair of crutches by the door. "You've used _these _before, right?"

"I think so." I slide my legs over to the edge of the bed and, with Joker's help, manage to gingerly get up.

"How d'you feel _now_, hmmm?" Joker asks, as I slowly take a step. "Go _lightly._"

I wobble as my vision swims for a moment. "Hold on—there are two of you. I'm sure that's not supposed to happen."

Joker chuckles. "_That _would be a treat, wouldn't it?" He steadies me, his hand on my back. "_Whoa_, there, slow down—we've got _aaaaaaall _the time in the world."

"Oh, good," I say, not really paying attention.

"Here, lets—lets get you a _chair _or something…" Joker directs me toward the purple inflatable chair he was using before, helping me sit down.

I close my eyes. "You know, you're being very helpful—and I'm sure you aren't just doing this to be charitable."

"What, I can't, ah, be _sugar n' spice _sometimes?" Joker asks, perching on the armrest. "Besides, if I wanted you _dead_…you _would _be by now." He sighs. "Do we _really _have to go through this every single time? Or have you, ah, been _whalloped _too many times on your _pretty head_?"

I roll my eyes. "I see you as more of a 'salt and vinegar' sort of person." I stretch my legs carefully, making sure the blood is circulating.

"Funny, I sound…_delicious_." Joker's scars stretch as he smirks. "Good enough to _eat_, in fact."

"No double entendres right now. I'm not—not in the mood."

"Oh, good. It'd be a bit…_tricky _to deal with, what with your being _really _doped up on pain meds _and _not being, ah, _mobile _enough right now. I mean, there's painand then there's _pain_, y'know?"

I rub my temples and decide to get off the subject. "What does Gordon know?"

"Not sure. But he'll have a…_hell _of a time trying to find us. The boys left a few breadcrumbs for his precious _team_ to follow in the Narrows."

"I see."

Joker yawns and gets up, handing me my crutches. "_So. _Let's get you back in bed—if you're ready—and whenever you're ready, we'll go over your…_wardrobe._"

I blink. "Wardrobe?"

Joker grins.


	47. Chapter 47: Batsy?

Disclaimer: I don't own _The Dark Knight_, or the store Slash N' Burn. (They have a site online, for the inquisitive).I own only this plot.

**Chapter Forty-Seven: Bruce**

I stare at the jumbled pile of clothes that now sits on my bed.

Nothing could prepare me for _this _trial by fire. I've never really been a clothes person (though my playboy persona did adore Armani suits), but now it seems I need to be.

The meds may be dulling my senses, but my mind is still trying to sort itself out. I'm tired, confused, hit by memories of Alfred at every turn. I can see his strong, loyal face behind my eyes every time I blink. My heart hurts every time it beats.

I take a deep breath. Exhale.

"So…these things are my 'wardrobe'?"

Joker looks strangely pleased. "I wasn't, ah, _real _sure of what you wanted, so I…_guessed _a little."

I pick up one of the items—a blue dandy shirt—and eye it warily. "…Where did you find these things, exactly?"

"Some of 'em _I _made, some I found when, ah, _out and about_. Take what you like—I can always get more. You can even put the ones you like in a 'keep' pile, if you want to be…_anal _about it_._"

"I see. You went through a lot of trouble, it seems." I begin picking through the clothes, blinking in surprise at what appears to be a knotted mass of suspenders.

Joker shrugs. "Not _really_. It's always a good idea to _dress for success_, in my, ah, _career._ Works _wonders_."

I stumble across an interesting find. A dark blue button-down shirt, and a bat-shaped buckle along the side of the shirt. Simple, but oddly elegant. It would be perfect for the summer ahead.

"What a coincidence," I remark dryly, holding up the shirt for Joker to see.

Joker giggles. "Isn't it great? The _stuff _one finds at bargain bins these days…that buckle number is from a little place called Slash N' Burn, if you're…_curious._"

I put the shirt aside and continue searching. Some things I instantly cast aside—Hawaiian shirts, tight jeans, a jock strap (why Joker thought I would need that I have no idea). It seems as though Joker dipped his toe into several subcultures to get all these styles—the Ivy League look, classic Western, punk, prep, grunge…the list goes on.

I decide to let my instincts guide me on this. It may seem like a strange idea, but since I'm still reflexively having "Bruce Wayne's" choices guide me, I need to give the growing "Batsy" a test run.

The results are…unexpected.

It seems that while black is still a favorite color of mine, blue is now somehow important. I now have blue motorcycle glasses, black or blue trousers and leather pants, a red and black button-down shirt, a blue vinyl shirt with no sleeves, and a simple black leather jacket. The "bat-shirt" is also in the pile.

"That's odd," I mutter, folding the clothes in a neat pile. "I've barely looked twice at these sort of things before…"

Joker chuckles. "That's why they'll be a great disguise! Who'd recognize, ah, the _dreamy _playboy Bruce Wayne in _those?_"

"Probably quite a few people, regardless." I run my hands through my hair. "One of the pitfalls of being a gossip magnet."

Joker rubs his chin with his thumb thoughtfully. "You've got a point _there. _Well…" He picks up the rest of the clothes and dumps them in the nearby laundry basket. "The boys'll take care of _these _things."

"How are they taking my being here?"

Joker shrugs. "About as well as you'd expect. I think _they _think you're a new member of our…_little team._"

I roll my eyes. "Is there some kind of fraternity ritual I have to perform?"

Joker laughs. "Oh, I wouldn't worry about _that._" He stretches his arms over his head, making his skirt rise up slightly. "_Noooo…_we've already _performed _enough in _that _regard."

"No comment."

Joker grins and settles himself back in his purple chair, chuckling softly at the squeaking noise of protest it makes.

"Nice comeback. Real, ah, _quick on the draw _today, aren't you?"

I yawn. "I suppose so."

Joker reaches behind him and picks up a pickle jar filled with…bullets?

"_See? _Souvenirs!" He shakes the jar slightly, making the bullets rattle against the glass.

I stare at the jar, feeling almost numb. "Did they take _all _of those out?"

"Actually…_nope._" Joker shakes the jar again, grinning slyly. "I did more than just, ah, watch you _bleed_, y'know. I managed to take out the more…_shallow _ones, like the ones in your shoulder and arm. All the rest were the doctor's business."

"But how—"

"And here I thought you, ah, _knew me _by now. I _always _keep a First-Aid kit in all my cars, in case of…_emergencies. _Well, maybe it's more than a, ah, First-Aid kit. I can do a bit of…_surgery._"

The fact that Joker removed bullets from me is a fact I need to mull over for awhile. It seems a bit too good…

He picks up the crutches and props them up by the bed, brushing imaginary lint off his white linen skirt.

"Not yet, Joker," I say, leaning back and closing my eyes. "I'm tired."

"Not even _one _last try?" Joker's voice takes on a familiar tone: _"Not even _one _last punch? Not even _one _last knot? Not even _one _last wrestle? Not even _one _last round?_"

"Don't try that tone with me, Joker. I'm _tired. _Why don't you go play nurse somewhere else?"

I open my eyes and find myself facing an odd expression on Joker's face. It's a pout that I've seen a few times before—the crinkled eyebrows, the wide, glittering eyes, the bitten lip that curls downward ever-so-slightly. It's a pout that always throws me off guard.

But not today.

"_I mean it_, Joker. Just put the meds on the table, next to the water. And keep the bedpan close by. That's all."

The pout vanishes, replaced by an eerie smile. "_Well. _Can't argue with my…_patient_, can I? Nono_nooo._"

Joker walks briskly over to his closet, rifling through his clothes with surprising force. "And _since _the patient wants his nursie to_ leave_, nursie must go play with _others. _Never _mind _how _nice _nursie is being, oh _no. _Never _mind _how nursie isn't being _mean_ at all—not a needle in sight! No, the patient is _always right._"

Joker stomps toward the door, pulling on a black coat. He roughly tugs a pair of black gloves on his slender hands, adjusts the lapels.

I don't want to say anything. I don't know if I _should_ say anything.

Joker curtsies mockingly, pulling a knife out of his pocket. "Don't get _up_, I can…_show myself out._"

He slams the door shut behind him.


	48. Chapter 48: Joker

Disclaimer: I don't own _The Dark Knight. _Only the three hitmen and this plot.

**Chapter Forty-Eight: Joker**

I glare down at the steering wheel, as I zip down the road, _more _than willing to get away from my…_patient. _

I switch on the radio and turn up the volume so that it _ROARS _in my ears as I drive, not even bothering to watch the speedometer. I can still see _him_—the dark, tired scowl, the _look _in his eyes that he thinks hides everything be tells me all I need to know…

He wants me to leave? _Fine. _Let him _piss on the sheets_, for all I care.

I'll do something…_worthwhile _in the meantime. Something that he _may _expect, but won't really think I'd _do._

I got a good, long _look _at those Mob creeps that day. I know _exactly _where to find 'em.

Like good stooges, they always pick the…_simplest _places.

Apparently, they thought having a drink or two at their place was a _good idea._ They thought their, ah, _connections _kept 'em safe.

They didn't expect a nurse at their door. They didn't expect knockout gas either (_thank you_, Damien). So it didn't take long for the three stooges to pass out, their drinks spilling all over the floor into golden rivers.

I drag them over to the nearest chairs and tie them up with whatever was handy—suspenders, ties, drape ropes—and begin to have some fun.

I slap the doughy one—the one who had the getaway car—and grin as he slowly opens his eyes.

"Well, good _morning_, Tubby!" I slap him again, watching with glee as his eyes go wide in realization and dumb horror. "Looks like you _know _me, hmmm? Great, great. Charmed, I'm _sure._"

"Wh-what d'you want with me?" he asks, his jowls wobbling.

"Oh, nothing…_too _bad," I say, taking my knife out of my pocket and waving it in front of his face, watching his eyes follow the blade. "Just want to _play _with you."

Yes, a little bit of a familiar line (the movies tend to like repetition sometimes), but nonetheless it gets the reaction I want: more wobbling jowls, the _hint _of a tear in Tubby's eye. He's beginning to panic.

"What k-kind of game?" he asks, his body starting to shake and make the chair rattle.

"Oh, it's just a little…_guessing game_." I smile and brush the strands of greasy blond hair out of his eyes—I want to get the, ah, _perfect view_, after all. "How much money were you paid to bump off…_Bruce Wayne?_"

Tubby gulps. "I—I dunno—we don't have the money yet! We haven't heard from the Boss!" His eyes are telling me something different.

"_Oh?_" I press the knife to his ear, still smiling as sweetly as a good nurse should. "Well, you just…_hold still. _I'll fix that little, ah, _problem _for you."

Tubby whimpers. "_Nonononononopleasedon'tI'lltellyounononononono_—"

"_What's that?_" I say loudly, putting a hand to my ear. "Sorry, I can't _hear you!_"

Tubby screams, a long line of drool pooling out of his mouth, soaking his gray t-shirt.

I clean the knife on his shirt and lean closer.

"_Now. _Tell nursie…_how much _were you paid?"

Tubby's crying without any restraint now. "Tuh—ten thousand…in cash…"

I nod agreeably. "Well, that's an…_okay _number. But y'know what?" I lean so close that I could almost kiss him—not that I _want _to. But it's the _closeness_ that makes things…_memorable._

Tubby sniffs as a long trail of mucus pours out his nose.

"_That wasn't enough._"

I slit his throat without a second thought, listening as one of the other stooges starts shaking his chair, trying to break loose.

"_Rise and shine_!" I call out, skipping over to him, curtsying for the hell of it. "Glad to see you're ready for our _playdate._"

"Let me _go!_" the skinny man screeches. "You sick _freak_, what the hell are you doing—"

"_Language,_" I chide, putting my knife to his mouth. "I _could _just make sure you'd _never, ever speak _again…but I need you to yakyakyak a _liiiiiittle _while longer."

The skinny man bites his lip, drawing blood. "I won't tell you anything."

"Oh, _c'mon now, _it's just a…_little _question." I tap my knife against the edge of his lips, grinning. "In fact, call it a…_hobby question._"

The skinny man gulps as the knife begins to slowly dig into his skin, beginning a new, ah, _smile_ for him to enjoy.

"Tell me…did you, ah, _enjoy _pulling the trigger on Bruce Wayne and his butler? Did you feel…_strong? Ahead of the curve? _Maybe even a little, ah, _hot and bothered?_"

"It was only a _job_, goddamn it! A stupid job!" The skinny man squirms in his chair, struggling to break free.

"What did I _tell _you about language…?" I let my…_sweet _demeanor _slip _for a second as I pull the knife away. "What about your _Boss_, hmm? Who _gave _you this little job?"

The skinny man keeps struggling, his eyes wide. "It—It was the Mob!"

"Well, _duh. _Anything _more _you can tell me?"

The skinny man gulps. I only _just _make out the name. Something tells me it's not quite…_true._

I don't feel anything as I stab through his chest, watching the blood seep out.

The last guy—a bulky _bear _of a man—doesn't fare any better. However, he _does _give me a bit of a, ah, _pick-me-up_: his eyes show so much _more _than the others, not just fear but _hatred _and there, just in the far corners of his eyes, there's this sense of _acceptance_. As if he really _knows _the time has come, and there's nothing he can do about it.

He spits in my face before I slit his throat.

Soon, I'm covered in blood, staring at their dead bodies.

I don't feel anything.

I look down at my hands, also smeared with blood, then at the dark pools that are sinking into the ratty gray carpet.

_I don't feel anything. _

I back away from them, lean against the wall. _Why can't I _feel _anything? I should be happy as a clam, having the time of my life! Why isn't this _working_?_

I close my eyes, and the answer pops up like a clown from a jack-in-the-box:

Batsy lying in the van beside Alfred, bleeding _everywhere, _that damn _wrinkle _between his eyebrows, arm dangling limply off the seat, pulse all _a-flutter_.

Batsy swooping down from the rooftops, arm pulled back into a fist, ready to, ah, _rumble _once again.

Batsy stepping into the hotel, cape fluttering behind him, eyes so _dark _and _intense _it makes me smile.

Batsy taking off his mask for the first time, putting this game at a, ah, _whole new level. _

Batsy trying _so hard _to get to the little fishies on the clock tower on time, teeth clenched in a snarl, eyes on the road.

Batsy storming after me on Halloween, slamming me into the wall, his body almost…_trembling _in rage.

Batsy going incognito with me as we try and be _normal _at Pasquale's Bistro, arguing over our delicious food.

Batsy and I struggling in his _precious_ Tumbler, bodies pressed together, hot and needy.

Batsy at the Mob meeting—before _and _after, all confident and hopeful and _smiling_…just a little.

Batsy drunk, calling me "a great dancer" and doing other, ah, _un-Batsyish _things.

Batsy burning down the hotel, trying and _trying _to let go of me, but knowing he can't—and never will.

Batsy storming into the house in his tacky tux with pure _confusion _in his eyes, which soon becomes something…_better. _

Batsy staring at me as I turn him _away _from all those, ah, _mundane _problems he worries over so much, the bells on my suspenders jingling away as the carols keep playing.

Batsy waking up beside me, noticing the little details he would _never _have noticed two years ago.

Batsy, dour, dark, desperate, delicious, _dynamic _Batsy, my fellow, my _equal. _

Suddenly, it all _clicks. _

_Oh, no. Oh nonononono…_

I feel a chuckle scrape it's way up my throat, then slither out of my mouth. And another. And soon I'm kneeling on the floor, shaking with laughter at the _comedy _of it all.

Batsy seems to have a…_knack _for _completely derailing _everything I do, doesn't he?

_Batsy. B-A-T-S-Y. The Batman. The GODDAMN Batman. The Dark Knight. The Caped Crusader. The Dark Detective. Mr. "I Won't Let You Beat Me". The guy who somehow makes an interrogation gone bad into, ah, _spine-chilling _foreplay. The "pitcher" and the "catcher". The King of (Side)tracking Criminals. The very _definition _of "denial". _

When I get my brain back together, I find myself crouched down, my head in my hands, kneeling on my skirt, rocking back and forth.

And while I _know _all you folks at home are, ah, _enjoying the image_, this _really _isn't the _time._

"Oh, how the mighty have _fallen_," I mutter, still laughing to myself as I get up.

I fix myself, sighing at the _mess _on my pretty dress. "Typical. I get myself all _pretty _and _sterile _for a few days, and _boom! _I go out on the town and _this _happens."

I make my way back over to my little, ah, _playmates _with a new _spring _in my step, my knife ready for action again. I click my tongue as I pace around them, an idea forming in my wonderfully _wicked _head.

"You guys _really _have to, ah, _pull yourselves together_," I chide, tapping Tubby's nose disdainfully. "You need to get your…_heads _on straight."

I fish around in the pockets of my dress before I find what I'm looking for: my mini sewing kit. I grin at their lifeless eyes as I make my way back around, trying to pick which to "fix" _first. _

"Well, don't you _worry. _Nursie'll fix you _right up._"

I settle myself on Tubby's knee and get to work.


	49. Chapter 49: Batsy?

Disclaimer: I don't own _The Dark Knight_, only the dream.

**Chapter Forty-Nine: Batsy?**

I close my eyes and try to get some sleep.

But I know I won't be able to. Not with all the frustration and the bitterness and the loneliness that's pulsing through my head, through my veins.

With a little struggling, I roll over onto my side. Once again, I find myself "comforted" by the greasepaint-and-blood smell that is Joker. There's antiseptic, too, of course, something that makes my nose cringe. If I had to choose between antiseptic and Joker's musk, I'd pick the latter…after much consideration.

There's a faint undercurrent behind the musk—the smell of Old Spice cologne. My cologne.

The cologne Alfred recommended—"To give yourself a gentlemanly flavor".

I struggle over onto my back, wincing as sparks of pain wrack my body. It's definitely time for another pain pill—then sleep.

I slowly lift myself up on my elbows and take one of the pills, popping it into my mouth and choking it down with water. Then I slowly lower myself back onto the pillow, closing my eyes and letting the medicine do its job.

I'm out like a light quicker than I expected.

_Thankfully, Joker isn't wearing the nurse uniform in this dream._

_He's in his usual purple suit, sitting beside me on a rooftop, holding something in his hands, tossing it up and down absentmindedly. He's humming some sort of children's song under his breath, his legs thumping against the wall of the building in time, looking out at the city lights. The moon is shading his green-brown hair in silver tints, highlighting the rest of his face in silvery-white, his lips bright red._

_I'm holding something too. It's wet, warm…pulsing. No, _beating_._

_I look down and find myself staring at a heart covered in white greasepaint stains, which is pooling blood onto my hands, my lap. _

_Joker looks at me, almost sheepish. "Sorry 'bout the, ah, _mess _there. But it's not like this is a _clean _sort of thing. At least we're in the same boat."_

_I take a closer look at myself—and my mind recoils. There's a gaping _hole _in my chest, dark and seeping red blood. _

_Joker moves closer, his grin becoming less sheepish, more confident. "We're in a bit of a…_pickle_, hmm? Nothing's ever easy for _us_…"_

_His forehead presses against mine, and I see his blood soaking into what remains of his waistcoat, seeping from the dark hole in his chest._

"_But then, would we have it _any _other way?_"

_I squeeze the heart in my hands slightly, and Joker winces. "Of course not."_

_Joker clutches the heart—_my _heart_—_tighter than I had expected, and I nearly topple backward. He winks. "Be _gentle_, now. It's a little…_tender _in spots. Like yours."_

_I let something similar to a smile pass my lips. "I can't guarantee that."_

"_Good…_I _can't _either._" Joker slowly stands up, and with barely a flicker of emotion pushes my heart into the empty space in his chest. _

_I press his heart inside the black hole in my chest…_

I wake up, my _real _heart pounding.

I gasp for air, clapping my hand to my chest, trying to make sure it was all a dream. Yes, there are no holes, only scars and a thudding heartbeat. I brush my hair out of my eyes, trying to get myself back together.

_It was only a dream. Only a medication-induced dream. It means nothing._

I slowly reach over to the bedside table and grab the glass of water, careful not to spill any on me as I drink. It's 6 p.m.

My eyes lock onto Sid Vicious, glaring down at me from the ceiling, looking smugger than ever.

"What're _you _looking at?" I mutter, struggling onto my side. I'm going to have to get Joker to tear that poster down. It's a bit unnerving.

I force my mind to think of other things, not the dream or Joker in general.

Somehow, I know it's going to be a long night.


	50. Chapter 50: Batsy?

Disclaimer: I don't own _The Dark Knight_. I do own the news of _The Gotham Times._

** Chapter Fifty: Batsy…?**

When I wake up, sunlight slams into my eyes, making me squeeze them tightly shut.

"Whazzat…?" I groan, struggling to sit up. The light hits me again, and I slide back down.

"Well _hiiiiiii_, _Sleeping Batty._" Joker steps in front of the light, giving my eyes a break—in a sense. "Did the patient have a nice nap? _Hmmm?_"

He shuts the drapes suddenly, letting me snap into focus. The nurse uniform is gone (for the moment?). In its place is surprisingly casual attire—a white shirt and black trousers. The same outfit he wore for that memorable "massage" incident. His war paint looks to be recently applied.

"_Well?_" he asks, sounding a little impatient.

"I've had better," I reply, scratching my head. "When did you get back?"

"Around, ah, _4:4_…_7 _or so. You were out like a _light. _Barely even _twitched _when I walked in." Joker yawns and settles himself comfortably in his purple chair, fingers tapping out a jazzy tune on the armrests. "Still want me to, ah, 'go play nurse somewhere else'?"

I wince as I try to move around—my bandages need changing. "No," I say softly.

Joker raises an eyebrow. "_Hmmm? What_ was that, now? I…didn't _catch _that."

"_No_, I said." Louder now, so that he can't possibly mistake me.

"Glad to hear it. _Now._" Joker claps his hands and rocks off the chair, already getting the new bandages ready. "Let's see what we can _do_…"

He settles down next to me on the bed and begins to work.

There's an awkward silence as he picks off the bandages and replaces them, already getting into a routine. I know how much he hates routines, so I try to prepare myself for anything out of the ordinary.

But I'm not prepared for the light touches he brushes across each of the bandaged wounds with his fingertips. Sometimes, I fidget and try to move away, other times I feel nothing at all.

"Looks like you're getting…_feeling_ back. Good." Joker grins and slides off the bed, grabbing my crutches. "Wanna try walking again?"

I nod.

As luck would have it, with Joker close by and my crutches to keep things going smoothly, I can make it into the hallway.

It's a defining, dramatic moment. My feet are slapping against the cool wood floor, and I'm not out of breath even as I move closer to the bathroom.

"I think it's time I had that bath," I say, as Joker goes ahead of me to open the door.

"Your wounds are healed enough that a little, ah, _soak _won't be a problem. Yeah, seeing you…_greasy _is a bit _odd_." Joker opens the door with a flourish, ushering me in. "Go on, _go on._"

I hobble in and barely even glance at my surroundings. It looks like Joker proved once again that he is always prepared—a small stool is sitting in the middle of the tub, waiting for me.

I somehow get my shirt off and, with Joker's help, ease myself into the tub and onto the stool. He's being almost tentative as he makes sure I'm steady before turning on the water.

"How about a shower instead?" he asks, running his hands through the water.

"That's fine." I attempt to stretch my legs out, jumping slightly as the showerhead is turned on, blasting warm water on me.

"Oh, _crap!_" Joker ducks his head back out of the shower, pulling the curtains back, but not before I see his disgusted expression as his dripping hair sticks to his face.

I allow myself a chuckle before scrubbing at my skin and hair, trying to get the greasy feeling out. It feels soothing, makes me feel more human.

"I _heard _that." I can see Joker crouching down beside the bath through the shower curtains. He sounds pleased, regardless. "I'm just here if you, ah, _need _anything."

"Right," I say, not really paying attention as I grab the green shampoo bottle and begin washing my hair.

"…Y'know…your penthouse was bought by one of your, ah, _socialite buds_. Says so in the paper." Something crackles—the newspaper, obviously. "Want me to…go _shopping _over there? They're auctioning stuff off."

They're already _auctioning things off. _Just as I specified in my Will_. _It's as if the Wayne family is an antique already.

"I don't know…well, maybe my candle-making kit, the books…" I let myself go on autopilot, making a (small) list of things I want to keep, little things, nothing anyone besides me would miss.

"Whoa, whoa, _slow down_, Batsy! I don't have a _notebook _on hand, y'know…" Joker snorts and tosses the paper away. "I'll…_see _about all that stuff. It might take a few trips."

"Good." I rinse away the shampoo and pick up the conditioner nearby. "Could you pass me the soap? It's fallen behind me."

I hear Joker brushing the curtains aside and trying to grab the soap with little success. I can hear it slipping and slurping out of his increasingly frustrated grasp. At first, I don't pay much attention—but once he starts growling and the soap starts smacking against the walls, I can't help but crane my head to see what the commotion is.

"What are you _doing_?"

"Trying to _catch _this piece of—" Joker jerks back as the soap slips from his grip and smacks him in the forehead.

I bite my lip.

"_Ow. Son_ of a _gun_-toting_-bitch_." Joker reaches down and grabs at the soap, digging his fingernails in. "Y'know, this would be a _great _murder weapon. Just…_throw _it at somebody, and _pow_—instant loss of an eye, or _worse!_"

Unsurprisingly, he sounds absolutely giddy about that possibility.

"Hand me the soap, please." I reach behind me.

Joker carefully places the soap in my hand, and our fingers touch—they're cool in comparison to mine, the tips lightly brushing against my fingers with a hint of scraping.

I pull my hand away, making sure the soap doesn't slip from my grasp as well. Joker pulls the curtains back, humming softly to himself.

"I'd like to check out the news soon. I'm sure I'm missing some important headlines."

"_I'll _say. Here, lemme get the paper again…"

I can hear Joker's feet slapping against the floor over the roar of the hot water pouring down on me, and the sound of the paper crackling and rustling in his hands as he picks it up.

"Ohhhh-_kay. So. _On the front page, we have 'Comissioner Still On The Hunt For The Joker'…then something about the Mayor giving another, ah, _reassuring _press conference to the poor sheeple of Gotham. Next page…'Wayne Enterprises Still Afloat'…_ooooh_, here's something about _you_, Batsy: 'Gotham Finally Grieves for Dead Wayne'."

"Read that one," I say, the soap still lathering my skin.

I can see Joker holding a hand to his ear mockingly through the curtains. "…_Please?_"

"Yes."

"Oh, _ho-ho_, aren't _we _a smarty-Bat today…" Joker rustles the paper and starts reading:

"'_Gotham has experienced it's share of funerals these days, but none with such a mixed reaction as that of Bruce Wayne's, Gotham's own Playboy Billionaire. Wayne was reportedly killed by a shootout_—blahblah_blah_, we _know_, moving on…_Wayne's butler, Alfred Pennyworth, was buried beside his parents, Thomas and Martha Wayne. Bruce Wayne's body has yet to be found'._"

Joker chuckles and rustles the paper. "I can, ah, _fix _that soon enough. No worries _there._"

The paper rustles again, and Joker continues: "'_The funeral itself was small, with Jim Gordon, Lucius Fox, and several board members in attendance, including one Coleman Reese. Otherwise—in an unexpected twist—the once-infamous playboy had very few mourners. Gotham Times set out to investigate why'…_"

I find myself surprised at such a small gathering. It's a little disappointing, actually, but then I "designed" my playboy persona that way—easy to forget in the glamour and the plasticity of "my" existence.

Joker reads on, talking of various socialite "friends" of mine while I listen intently, washing myself instinctually.

"Joker?"

"…_Mmm?_"

"…I need your help. I need to lean on you for a moment."

"Gotcha." Joker puts the paper down, shoves the curtains aside and rests his hand carefully on my shoulder. "Wouldn't want you to try it _yourself _and _slip_, right?"

It's strange, how suddenly very real he seems to me. His skin feels so solid, his grip so secure, his eyes so cruelly honest as he stares at me, that cynical light in his eyes mixed with something else as he pushes the curtains back aside and starts reading again.

"…'_There has been some speculation over The Batman's strange absence in the last few days, coinciding with Wayne's death. Some say that Bruce Wayne was The Batman, others say that The Batman is searching for the killers as well. Commissioner Gordon has refused to comment. When asked what they thought of the "Wayne-As-Batman" theory, the criminals in Gotham's prison had intriguing responses._"

I switch off the water, feeling the air suddenly grow colder around me. The water slides down my back, my shoulders, making sharp _plink_ing noises as they drop onto the marble floor.

"You okay in there, Batsy?"

"I'm fine. Keep reading."

"O_kaaay_…'_One criminal remarks, 'I don't think The Bat-freak's gone. No way. This is prime time for bashin' guys like me into a pulp'_…cute, huh Batsy?"

"My teeth are rotting at the sweetness of it. Anything else?"

"Hmm…let's see…then it says '_Upon hearing of this particular theory, an entire block of criminals bowed their heads and remained silent for a moment before refusing any more questions. Still others went into a frenzy, causing a small riot in the mess hall._ _The prison guards were disturbed by this behavior—previously, the prisoners had only cursed The Batman and all he stood for. 'It's just not right,' one jailer told _Times_, dragging one particularly distraught prisoner to the more secure area of the prison. 'These people _hated_ The Batman. They called him a freak. But they also had some sort of respect for him, see, like he was some Patron Saint of Freaks. Now that he's dead—or at least gone—there's no telling _what _these creeps will do'_…"

Joker sighs.

"Looks like that's where it stops, Batsy."

I brush my wet hair out of my eyes, looking down at my knees. I run the image over in my mind—an entire block of criminals—_criminals_—bowing their heads in silent remembrance of a symbol, a symbol that locked them up and left them to rot.

And yet, all the "normal" people—the glittering socialites, the people who run (ran?) my company—they all forgot about me as easily as taking a sip from a martini. They dropped both "Bruce Wayne" and "The Batman" like a ruined desert. (Gordon, of course, is playing along—he has to). I'm dead to them—I've probably been dead to them for a long time.

The "good" people of Gotham barely even register my death, but the people I worked so hard to destroy are, in their own strange way, paying their respects.

I rest my head in my hands, feeling my shoulders start to shake.

"…Batsy?" Joker brushes the curtains aside, resting his arms on the tub's edge.

I take a deep breath and try to steady myself. "Let me see the paper."

Joker hands it to me, and I read the entire article through twice. It's exactly as Joker said. Every mocking comment made by an ex-flame, every detail of the prisoners' strange behavior, it's all there, stated plainly in black and white.

It's actually_ a bit funny. _

The paper tears under my hands as I rip it to shreds, my shoulders shaking. Suddenly everything's a blur of black and blue and bits of paper, as my mind hits "replay" over and over again:

**Bruce, show the world who you really are**

Something inside me is breaking apart.

**Show the world who you really are**

One piece snaps away—

**Show the world who you really are**

Then another—

**Take off your masks, Batsy**

And another—

**Take off your masks, Batsy**

And I'm laughing softly—

**Let go**

It feels good—

**Let go**

So _good—_

**Let go**

I think I'm flying.


	51. Chapter 51: Joker

Disclaimer: I don't own _The Dark Knight _or Beethoven's _Fur Elise. _Only this plot.

**Chapter Fifty-One: Joker**

…_Well. _

Y'know, even though I _thought _The Plan was sunk after my little, ah, _epiphany_, it turns out that it worked after all…in a _round-about _way.

But it's not like I can _say_ that—no, it's gone now. Now, it's time to make sure Batsy doesn't…_hurt _himself.

So I help him to bed, and let him sleep—he's out like a light. I put a pain pill by his bedside…_just _in case.

I've got some…_things_ to think about.

Batsy does too. I know that feeling of, ah, _breaking free. _It takes time to…_adjust _to the change. To the _freedom_ of it all.

I'll let him rest.

I walk downstairs to the kitchen, grabbing an apple out of the fruit bowl on the white marble counter. I turn it over in my hands, not really _looking_ at the perfect curves, the sickening green, the little brown spots. I lean against the counter, head bowed.

My chest feels…_tight. _Not _light _or _heavy_, just…_tight. _Like something's stretching against it, squeezing it into nothing. My head's throbbing, my legs feel like lead, and my throat feels cold and lumpy.

The apple drops to the floor and rolls away, boxed around by a playful, hungry Jack, who purrs with delight at his good luck.

The boys shuffle past me, armed with decks of cards and, ah, _curvy _mags. I ignore them, wrapped up in my own thoughts.

I sit by the window and watch the cars drive by, so _oblivious _to the fact that Gotham's Finest are only _just _to the right of them. It's amazing how the world just…_rolls on and on _even though something _amazing _just happened only a few minutes ago.

I rest my chin in the heel of my hand, not really looking at anything in particular anymore. The thing _is_, now that The Plan's basically, ah, _come full circle_…what do I do _now? _What do _we _do now?

In a way, this feels _waaaaaaay _too much like what happened with Harvey from Harvard and Rachel The Beautiful Bait. When they're on the playing field, they don't seem like much. You _kill _'em, and lo and behold, they have _hidden details. _Details I could've…_played with. _

And now, Batsy is _Batsy_, and…well…I'm just not too _sure _about that.

I rub my temples, feeling my head pound an even heavier rhythm. Nothing like a headache to make things even _more _ridiculous…

I wobble up to my room, where Batsy's probably sleeping snug as a bug.

Sure enough, there he is, practically _smothered _under all those covers, dark wet hair sticking to the pillow, chest rising and falling as he breathes slowly. His lips twitch—I think he's having a good dream. His hands are clutching the blankets, long and paling and so _artsy_-looking, like mine, only with a bit more of a _rough _feeling to them.

I grin and keep my distance—don't want to, ah, _smother _him myself.

Quietly, I walk past my room into the little room just down the hall—a place I had set up to be a…"_music room_" of sorts during the winter. I close the door behind me, leaning against it and sighing.

"Miss me?" I ask the _huge _sound system, piles of CDs, and grand piano. "Well, _I _sure missed _you_."

I make my way over to the piano, sit down and begin to play. My fingers slowly shuffle across the keys, at first not really _having _a tune, then slowly turning into a jazzy ragtime number. I _slam _out the tune, closing my eyes and letting it slowly…_uncurl _as my mood switches to a blank nothingness.

By that point I'm…_somehow_ managing Beethoven's _Fur Elise. _Even in my topsy-turvy mood, the music is still…_relaxing. _A nice change of pace, even if it is clunky and awkward when I play.

Thankfully I'm not playing loud enough to drown out Batsy's call. "Joker?"

I'm out of the room in a flash, keeping my steps easy and careful. I poke my head through the door. "Yeah?"

Batsy slowly sits up, rubbing his eyes. "Was that _you _a little while ago? Playing that music?"

I fidget. "Um…yeah. Yeah, that was me."

Batsy nods. "Not bad."

"You need your sleep." I get ready to leave.

"So do you." Batsy's lips curl slightly _up_, and I feel the headache go away a little. "You look worn out."

I shrug. "Guess so."

I move over to my purple inflata-chair and slump down into it, hands on my lap, legs over the armrest. My…_usual_ pose. Batsy rests his head back on the pillow, eyes drooping sleepily. I can't help but notice the, ah, _ever-so-slight _looseness in his body. He used to be all _high-strung _and _stiff_, but now there's a bit more _slack _in his shoulders.

"Say…did you feel like this after you…?" Batsy gestures vaguely, but I get where he's going.

"Yep. 'Course, I didn't…have _company_ then, or a familiar _face_. Count yourself lucky." I wag a finger at him, grinning. "Or…_not._ I'll try to be out of your hair—looks like you're doing okay now."

"I still feel…strange, though. My head can't pull itself together."

I nod—I've felt _that _before too. It's like there's a, ah, _tornado_ inside your head, mix-mashing everything _up. _"It'll take a few days…and sleep."

Batsy blinks and, with a little trouble, rolls himself onto his side, now facing me fully. "We still need to take care of the Mob."

I can't help but grin. "I was…_hoping _we'd get to that. But not yet. You're not…_coherent _right now. Sleep first, heal second, _mass-murder _later. Okay?"

Batsy smiles wryly at me. "Of course you're going to sleep too, right?"

"Uh…_no. _Nurses can't sleep on the job—"

"You've got bags under your eyes. There's a wrinkle on your forehead. We wouldn't want to make those _permanent_, right?"

I blink.

_What—_

Batsy's smirk widens.

_The—_

I blink again.

_Hell…?_

"Got you," Batsy says, closing his eyes. "Now go to sleep. It's not like I can go anywhere."

I stare at him for a moment, as his body goes limp with sleep. I watch his eyelashes flutter, his paling hands curl and uncurl. He's going to need to go outside soon—he'll be white as a _sheet _if this keeps up.

No, it's not like he can go anywhere_…yet. _

I sigh and get myself…_comfy _in my chair, the tight feeling in my chest loosening.


	52. Chapter 52: Joker

Disclaimer: I don't own _The Dark Knight_, _Doctor Who_, Rosencrantz and Guildenstern (though they are in the Public Domain), or Betty's House of Pies (but then you knew that, didn't you?). I do own this plot.

**Chapter Fifty-Two: Joker**

It takes Batsy about a week to "get his head together".

There's a lot of sleep and, ah, _alone time_ involved. (Not like _that_, you cute little perverts! Pain meds, re_mem_ber?). I stay out of his way, unless he needs me to get water or change his bandages. My nurse uniform is nice and _fresh_ by now, so once again I can amble around the house, creeping out the boys.

And so, as if by _magic_, a month goes by.

A month filled with healing: doing exercises ("Put your _back_ into it, Batsy! C'mon, the timer's a-_tickin'!_"), catching up on _Doctor Who _("Yes, Joker, I see the similarities between the Doctor and the Master and us…and no, that isn't why I got into this show"), sleeping (and snoring, in Batsy's case), and planning ("…No. Nonono_nooooo_, that's too _simple_, Batsy! We want this _big_, don't we?").

Wash, rinse, repeat.

I watch as Batsy pulls on his red-and-black button-down shirt, the black trousers already showing off his, ah, _atrophied _legs.

"Ready to get outside and…feel the _sun_?" I ask, as Batsy easily buttons the shirt in a few seconds.

Batsy rolls his eyes. "No, I want to sleep another week."

I snicker. "Glad to see you're ah, _willing. _I'm sure Betty's _dying _to have a new customer."

"Is business really that slow?" Batsy adjusts his collar and raises an eyebrow. "The way you gush about her, I'd think business is booming."

I shrug. "_You _know Gotham—always _full _of surprises."

"It is, isn't it?" Batsy _smiles_—something I haven't gotten sick of yet—and heads toward the door. He checks himself in the mirror, tweaking his hair a little. "Think this'll work?"

"You look _great_," I tell him, adjusting the hair gel-created spikes a little, making sure they _really _stick out. "But we'll see what the, ah, _sheeple _think. The boys aren't coming with us this time, un_fort_unate_ly. _They're staying behind to…keep an _eye_ on things—just in case the, ah, _boys in blue _come around."

"I told Schiff and the others they could have my leftovers if they did their job well," Batsy tells me as we head downstairs.

I think Batsy's going to make controlling these goons a little…_easier. _The boys are still gonna be under _my _thumb, of course. Batsy'll just be another, ah, _instigator_. He's good at that.

Speaking of the boys…they scurry out of sight once we make our way through the house to the garage. The house is weirdly _quiet_, actually, save for Jack playing with his little catnip mouse, purring and smacking it into the chairs and walls of the kitchen.

What d'you know…we _can _be peaceful.

"We're taking the Bentley, by the way. And _you _are riding shotgun."

Batsy looks around the garage curiously, examining every detail—I guess he _is_ still a detective, in his own way. I laugh when he sees the Bentley—his expression goes from surprised to, ah, _bitter. _Looks like somebody _reeeeeeeally _loves his toys after all…

I unlock the car and open the door, grinning as Batsy sighs in ex_as_pera_tion_.

"You still don't trust my driving?"

I give Batsy a look and climb into the driver's seat, stroking the well-worn leather wheel lovingly. "Batsy, I don't think I'll _ever _trust your driving. See, _this _is where _not _being born with a silver Batarang in your mouth comes in _handy._"

Batsy adjusts his, ah, _sleek _leather jacket, rolling his eyes. "At least I don't shoot cops who try to give me a speeding ticket."

I sigh. "_Batsy_, that was just _one time!_"

"Yes, because no one else wanted to risk it happening again."

"_Batsyyyyy_…" I croon dangerously, gesturing toward the empty seat. "_Hop in!_"

For a moment, Batsy looks like his old…_restrained _self. And not in a _good _way.

"I'm keeping an eye on the speedometer."

Some things _never _change, huh?

Warily, Batsy climbs in beside me, buckling himself in. _Good. _I just got him back in one, _new-and-improved _piece again—I don't want him in…_pieces. _

I chuckle and start the engine. "Hey, if it makes you…_feel _better, I _do _trust you on a motorcycle." I pause as we roll out of the garage and out onto the road. "…Well, ah, _most _of the time."

"I'm flattered," Batsy says dryly, rolling down the window and leaning his hand out, spiked hair already getting a laid-back, windblown look.

It's a good look for him. Looks like it was a good idea (_his_, actually) to turn his hair into a porcupine. It's _really _not a "Bruce Wayne" style—which makes it ideal for keeping those "Bruce Wayne/The Batman Is Dead!" rumors and headlines flowing along.

Because, y'see, Bruce Wayne and Batman _are _dead—deader than, ah, _Rosencrantz _and_ Guildenstern_. They've been pushed aside by the public and "unmasked" by the very person who…_played _those roles_._

And hey, let's face it—Batsy played them _well. _But now it's time for a _new_ role…a _new performance_.

And I'm _more _than happy to provide the, ah, _opening number_.

That's why we're going to visit Betty's House of Pies. (Houston, we have a tonguetwister!) Last time I checked, the place still had a tie to Gotham's underbelly. It'll be the perfect place to find out what _we've_ missed in our, ah, _R&R. _

After being stuck in traffic by some idiot (and writing down the license plate to, ah, _hunt down _later) we _finally _get to the shop.

"So…are we just going to park out here?" Batsy looks around reflexively, checking around us for anything…_off. _

"Yep, always do. See? Nobody here!" I hop out, Batsy taking one last look around before following me. "Oh, ah…by the _byyyyyy_, it'd be a good idea to, ah, _keep things cool_ if anything goes bad."

"How so?" Batsy asks, stuffing his hands in his pockets.

I lock the car. "There might be some Mob freaks here that…_recognize _you, or try to, ah, _engage _me. Just smile, eat your pie, and re_mem_ber—"

"—Joker, either way, they're getting what's coming to them." Batsy suddenly stops and stares at the exterior of the shop. I bump into him.

I peer around him. "What's eatin' _you?_" I ask with a _hint _of irritation.

"Joker." Batsy turns and looks at me, that damn _scowl _back on his face. "It's _cute. _It has little cartoon pies and coffees, and hearts all over the walls and windows." He turns around. "I'm not going in there."

"Too bad," I reply—doing my best to keep my, ah, _smile _in place, "_I'm _going in there. And I'm going to have some _dee_-li_-cious _pie. And get some info."

I step forward. Batsy doesn't move.

I roll my eyes and take another step. Batsy _still_ doesn't move.

I sigh. "Finefine_fiiiiine_, I'll make you a _deal. _You come in with me, eat some pie, get some info, and _after _that you and I will go see some kind of, ah, _manly _action movie or something. Deal?"

Batsy folds his arms over his chest. "Only if it's _Gladiator._"

"_Deal_-io."

The door lets out a familiar _ding-a-ling-a-ling _as we walk in, heading for the counter. Looks like we're the only customers. That's actually kinda nice—no, _great_—since this way we can get the info (and pie) we need and just skedaddle.

The Christmas decorations are gone. The usual cutesy cartoon cows and lambs prancing around the walls have returned—they were hidden by all the tinsel and lights and other red-n'-green _things_.

Betty looks up from her _Cosmo _magazine and just _beams _at the sight of me. "_Hey_, Mr. J! I haven't seen you in forever!" She somehow manages to hug me over the counter, still holding the magazine. "Who's your friend?"

Despite the hug and cheery smile, I know full and well she just considers me easy money, nothing else. Typical, huh? And as far as she's concerned, Batsy's just _extra _cash.

Batsy gives her a small, quick smile. "B. Nice to meet you."

And suddenly, judging by the…_twinkle _in Betty's eyes, that "extra cash" suddenly became something a bit more, ah, _physical. _

They shake hands while I get myself…_comfy _in my usual seat—second from the middle. Batsy sits a seat away from me, letting us both get a good view of the street. Batsy looks through the menu silently, while Betty gives me "the usual"—Lemon Meringue.

"So, Mr. B, what are _you _having?" Betty asks, a…_flirty_ tone to her voice. It sounds more than a little _weird_ coming out of her mature, raspy mouth. "I'm sure Mr. J could make a few suggestions. He's probably eaten every pie I've ever made!"

"And there's _never _a pie of yours I didn't like!" I add, chomping away on the delicious, cool, tarty lemon. "So pick a pie, 'B', any pie."

Batsy shakes his head and looks at the menu one last time. "Let's see…the Cocoa Crème sounds good."

"Whole or in slices?"

Batsy blinks in surprise before saying "Whole, please." He remembered his _promise_, how…_nice _of him.

Betty grins. "Coming right up!" With that she bustles away, humming under her breath.

I lean closer to Batsy and whisper in his ear "She _liiiiiiiiiikes yoooooou_…"

"Shut up and eat your pie." Batsy says.

"She _waaaaaants yoooooooou_…"

"And I know that you're less than pleased with the idea. Don't stab the potential informant."

I snort. "Good one."

"Thank you." Batsy smiles that quick little smile as Betty sets his pie down in front of him.

"So who's paying on this little date?" Betty asks, winking at me.

Batsy takes out his new blue leather wallet and pulls out a fifty—one of the few scraps of cash _left _after his so-called "friends" ripped his trust fund to shreds.

"I am. Will this do?"

"Oh, that's just fine." Betty takes the fifty and opens the cash register with loud _ka-ching. _"Now, Mr. J, I _know _you're here for more than just pie."

"You got it," I manage to say through a mouthful of pie. "So,_ how're_ thingssince I've been, ah, _busy?_"

"The Families have been out celebrating—parties, get-togethers, basically blowing lots of cash and having fun. They don't seem to miss you at all—but then again…" Betty shrugs and smiles good-naturedly.

I keep my temper light and cheery as Batsy finishes his pie and pulls out the note I wrote.

"If you see any of the Mob, give them this address." Batsy hands her the note. "Spread the word about a get-together. We would like to see all the 'businessmen' there. No kids, no ladies, just them."

"Why?" Betty asks, her expression suspicious. "What's so special about _this _place?" She looks down at the note. "Are you putting on a show or something?"

"Uh-_huh_," I say, giggling as Batsy's eyes take on a dark gleam. "It'll be one _hell _of a time, won't it, B?"

"Oh, yes," Batsy replies, smirking and getting up from his seat. "A night to remember."


	53. Chapter 53: Batsy

**ATTENTION: **Counting this chapter, we have only two more chapters to go, plus an Author's Note/Soundtrack list. I'm going to be vacationing for the coming two weeks. If you don't see any updates after this one for the next two weeks, that's the reason why. Thanks for your support!

Disclaimer: I don't own _The Dark Knight, _or any of the songs mentioned here. I own this plot, and most of the Mobsters.

**Chapter Fifty-Three: Batsy**

Two days later, the show is ready.

The South Side Gotham Community Theatre is in a particularly run-down area of the Narrows. The floor creaks underfoot, the fairly large stage is covered in dust, and the lights need a lot more tweaking than expected—Schiff and "Boss Boy"(?) help with that. The seats seem to be rotting, the red velvet peeling away as years go by.

In short, it's perfect for what we're going for here.

"Seymour and a few others just went out to 'welcome' our guests. They're being directed to the 'green room'," I tell Joker, who is already adjusting his top hat. "Should I head backstage?"

The dressing room we're using for the moment is just as tattered as the rest of the theatre—old, peeling wallpaper, grimy mirrors (even I couldn't clean them off) and ruined costumes still left on the clothing racks. Our clothes are hanging off rickety chairs that are parked beside one of the dressing tables.

I put the finishing touches onto my face awkwardly—it's been awhile since I put kohl over my eyes. Not since my last night as Batman…but I manage it. Besides, Joker's men are going to look a little worse for wear no matter how they try to make themselves presentable.

"Yeah—wouldn't want to be late for your, ah, _debut_…" Joker grins at me and looks in the mirror one last time. "Okay, _there._ All ready to go!"

I look him up and down, surprised at how well he pulls off the "ringmaster" look. The purple suit glitters with sequins, and his spats and bowtie are as white as the greasepaint on his face. His top hat is perched jauntily on his head, with a purple "J" tucked into the hatband. His pocket-watch is tucked into his jacket, with the silver chain almost invisible in the sequin's light.

"That suit's not going to last long, you know. Or mine." My suit is a black tuxedo with glittering sequins stitched all over it (courtesy of Joker), and a blue pocket square in my breast pocket. I wanted to look like a gentleman one last time.

The blue streaks in my newly-spiked hair catch the light brilliantly.

"During or _after?_" Joker asks, eyebrows raised coyly. Then he shrugs and claps me on the back. "Now don't go getting…_stage fright _on me. This is a _critical moment._"

"I've acted before, remember?" I'm just about to leave when Joker stops me. "What is it?" I ask.

"You need a…_calling card_," Joker tells me, taking a deck of cards from his pocket and shuffling it quickly. "Like _me_, remember?"

"Do we have time?"

"We'll _make _time if we have to." Joker quickly spreads the cards out on the table and gestures toward them. "Pick a card, any card."

I take my time, running my hands over each of the cards, thinking it over. Finally I flip the next to last card over, exposing a 9 of Spades.

Joker giggles. "Fitting," he mutters, handing it to me. "It means, among…_other _things, 'new beginnings' and 'acceptance'. Fits _you _to a 'T'."

I shrug and don't pick up the card yet. "Maybe it does, maybe it doesn't."

"Now, _now_…" Joker says, sliding the card behind my pocket square. He's close enough for our foreheads to touch.

We both know this isn't the time, nor the mood—but it's still nice to relish the un-drug-wrecked feeling.

I step toward the door, already hearing Joker's men running to their places. "Oh. Time to go."

Joker scurries ahead of me, hissing at anyone within range to get out of the way. I leave the dressing room and go backstage, attempting to jog quietly up the wood staircase Seymour had made for my entrance. There are two moldy curtains—I'm behind the black one, and Joker is behind the red one—which should open right about…

I hear the front curtain whisk open, and the audience cheers and claps enthusiastically.

"_Laaaaadies _and _Gentlemen!_ _Harlequins_ and _Bozos! Auguste's _and _Tramps! Clowns of all ages!_"

The cheering and clapping rises with every "welcome", then goes silent.

"Welcome…to _Joker's Circus Spectacular! _Here, behind this curtain, are things you'll _never _find anywhere else. 'Cause, y'see, _here_…we're putting on a, ah, _killer _show. And _trust _me, ladies and gents, we're gonna _blow your mind._"

I've heard all this before, when we were planning the show. Joker mumbled and scribbled speech after speech before finally deciding on this one. And I have to admit, it's intriguing. I can hear some of Joker's men mumbling and giggling almost inaudibly below me, admiring their boss' style, no doubt.

"_Soooo…_to start off, we've got an _amazing _little number for you. _Now_, I know Gotham isn't the, ah, _Big Apple_, but I just wanted to show off the talents of a few of my boys. Some of 'em even came from that pretty city—but it's not as pretty as _you_, Gotham. Oh, no, you're the apple of _our _eyes!"

The audience roars and whistles with approval. I can see my fellow "performers" edging quickly to stages left and right respectively.

"_So_, ladies and gentle_clowns_, let's take a little trip to…_New York, New York!_"

Joker's boys enter the stage with practiced ease. I can hear their introduction of "_Bum, bum, da-dee-da-da_…" and clapping in tune. Since all they have to go by is a trumpet and a one-note drum beat (provided by two "newbies"), it's impressive they're doing so well so soon.

Of course, Joker did threaten them with either no dessert for a week or no more fingers…

Speaking of Joker, he is pacing backstage, on stage left, just a short distance away. His head is bobbing from side to side, and his fingers are waving like a conductor's baton.

Schiff croons out "_Start spreadin' the news…I'm leavin' today…_" as someone whistles in the background.

Then Seymour—who doesn't look like a baritone at all—joins him, and the back-up singers begin to really give it their all. I can see their shadows as they all sway in time, clapping to the beat. Schiff's voice rings out loud and clear, louder and more confident than I've ever heard it.

Looks like using the _Reel Big Fish _cover was a good choice.

Seymour has his solo: "_I wanna wake up…in a city that never sleeps…_" as the back-ups croon away like canaries. "_And find I'm King of the Hill…Top of the Heap!_"

Joker grins at me and adjusts his bowtie, rocking on his heels.

Soon, the "_bum-bum-ba-dee-da-das_" begin again in renewed force, as Schiff and Seymour belt out "_New York, New Yoooork_…_I wanna wake up, in a city that never sleeps_…"

Joker giggles—apparently they're at the line dance/kicking part.

"…_And find I'm A-number One, Top of the List, King of the Hill_…"

There's a slight squeaking sound as the boys split up into what Joker called the "ta-daaa!" pose. Joker vanishes from my sight.

"_**A-number OOOOOOONE**__…_" Schiff and Seymour scream, as the stage suddenly goes silent.

There's a dramatic pause. And then…

Joker croons out the final "_These little town bluuuues_…" and the back-ups screech out their part, while in their line dancing routine.

"_Aaaaare melting away…_" Schiff and Seymour join Joker, as they "_Make a brand new start of iiiiit…in ol' New York!_"

The number reaches a climax as they hit a screeching high note _en masse_, which dissolves into a animalistic scream.

The audience goes absolutely insane, whistling and clapping and roaring, and I can see Joker's men bowing.

"Thank you, _thank you_. Schiff, if you would, ah, _do the honors _of showing our _special _guests to the stage?"

Schiff scampers backstage, waves at me cheerily and opens the door to the "green room", ushering the Mobsters out onto the stage. They smile and shuffle onto the stage, pushing each other aside in the rush to get into the bright lights first, and are instantly blinded by spotlights.

What these stars to-be don't know is that the audience consists only of a movie camera and a tape recorder with a laugh track.

As each Mobster comes through the door, they are blinded by the lights. Seymour and Schiff yank them aside and use body handcuffs on them, stripping them of their weapons in the process. When the Mobsters realize what's happening, the rest of the "boys" descend on them, dragging them onstage by force.

"Now, _what _do we have _heeere_, hmm?" Joker smacks someone upside the head, making them bleat in shock. The "audience" lets out a dark chuckle_. _"Oh! Are _these _the guest stars, Schiff? _Wow. _And here I thought we had someone with, ah, _talent._"

The audience laughs loudly, and I prepare myself. Soon, it'll be my turn.

"_Laaaaadies and Gentletramps_, I proudly present…_The Mob!_" Joker's voice is nearly lost in the midst of the loud "boos" and hisses. "Ah-_tatatata_, don't _worry_…they're getting their _due_."

His voice takes on a darker, deeper edge, making the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.

"I'm _sure _you all know _why. _They've been running this town for _ages_, always looking for more ways to rake in the, ah, _moolah. _And more ways to _buy off the people in power._"

The audience mutters amongst themselves.

One of the Mobsters screams "What about _you_, huh? How're _you _any different, you son of a—"

There an echoing _snik _of one of Joker's knives snapping out, ready for action. "Hmmm…good _question_, Bertineli. How _am_ I different…? _Well_, I'll _tell _you: because I don't _care _about _money_. I don't care about who's _running _this city, but in my own…_special way_, I care about Gotham_._"

There is a sudden, sharp pause. It feels as though Gotham is holding its breath, the very skyscrapers trembling under the strain of this sudden halt in the night's grim proceedings.

"…Actually, no. I'm not the _only one _who cares about this place." Joker chuckles, and I know my cue is coming up. "…_Right, _Batsy?"

The curtains slowly peel open, like a newly-opened wound, and there I am, descending the white stairs, my tuxedo coattails flapping behind me. There was talk of having me sing Michael Buble's cover of "Feeling Good" at this point in the "show", but we decided to go for the dramatic effect of silence. The song comes later.

It's working, it seems.

The "audience", meanwhile, roars its approval on cue.

I step in front of the Mobsters, who are at our collective mercy. I raise the double chins of one particularly fat Mobster with my cane, studying him.

"Hello. Do you recognize me?" I ask, cocking my head to one side.

The Mobster shakes his head, and I move to Joker's side.

"So, _Batsy_…how should we, ah, _start _this little party, hmm?" Joker slings an arm around my shoulder and grins at our unlucky guest stars.

"Well…first, I believe we should perform a magic trick." I look to Joker's men, who are nodding enthusiastically. "A disappearing act."

The "audience" applauds.

"Sounds good to me!" Joker laughs and bows. "And _now_, boys and girls, here's our first trick of the evening—the Vanishing Mobsters!"

(Applause.)

Schiff and Seymour go backstage.

"_Now_…we're gonna need _four _volunteers for this." Joker gestures to the Mobsters. "_You choose._"

The Mobsters don't do anything at first, until Joker's men begin to edge ever closer. Then they begin to whisper amongst themselves.

"Time's up!" Joker says cheerily, and the "boys" grab four random Mobsters and drag them forward.

"All right," I say. "Come with me. Don't be shy." I walk over to the four and point them to the edge of the stage—where they will be in full view of the camera in the "audience".

The Mobsters shuffle awkwardly to the spot, the look in their eyes revealing what Joker would describe as "ah, _special_". They want to escape, to kill me, to kill all of us, but they follow our orders, still uncertain as to what Joker is up to.

"What now, freaks?" one of them asks, a sneer in his voice. "We wait for a—a giant _rabbit _to come out of your hats?"

"No," I reply calmly, as Joker loudly chants the words ("_Abolesco, in aeternum_") and Schiff and Seymour pull a lever. "That would be too simple."

And the trap door underneath their feet opens up. They don't even have time to scream. All we hear is the sickening _crunch _of bodies meeting solid concrete.

(Applause.)

I gesture toward the darkened theatre, bowing like any good showman.

I turn back to the remaining Mobsters, who are staring silently down at the trap door. Joker is twirling his knife lazily between his fingers, looking somewhat pleased, but I get the feeling the sound of bodies hitting concrete struck him in a different way.

"For our _next _trick," Joker calls to the audience, "we're going to—"

Before Joker can say anything more, Fico Maroni shakes off his cuffs, a small penknife in hand. Apparently perseverance runs in his Family. His dark hair seems to bristle as he stares at us.

"Is that all you've got, clown? _Tricks?_ _Goons? _You're no better than the rest of us. In fact, you're _worse. _You hire the nearest thugs available, even the loonies. You play them for fools, using them just like you use everyone else. And _this _kid"—Fico points to me—"is gonna wind up just like the rest of 'em. A dead body on the side of the road."

Joker stares at him unblinkingly, one hand in his pocket. The knife is still twirling in his other hand. He looks at me, then at Fico.

Before he can say anything, someone clears their throat backstage. I watch as Schiff—dressed for success in a simple tuxedo with a yellow rose on the lapel—steps out of the shadows, a small smile on his face.

Fico turns around to face him. "What're _you _after? If you're trying to defend your precious _Boss_ here, don't bother."

"Boss is fine," Schiff says, bouncing lightly on his heels. "But…we're not fools." He cocks his head to one side. "You should learn to show a little more respect."

Fico snorts. "Fine, then. Get yourself killed. If I had my way, you'd all be locked up in Arkham right now, under enough meds to kill a horse."

Something flickers in Schiff's eyes, and I look back toward Joker. His scars are wriggling into a smirk.

"_Well, _Maroni," Joker says, his tone condescending, "looks like you've started our second act already." He cocks his head to one side. "Right, Schiffy?"

Schiff bounces a little faster now, nodding once. His chin is tucked down, and his eyebrows are lowered into a dark glare. A smile twitches slightly on his face.

"Y'see, Ma_ro_ni…around here, we're not, ah, _bedlam people. _Especially Schiff here." Joker grins and turns to the audience. "_Ladies and tramps_, how'd you like to see a _brawl _for the ages?"

The audience screeches on cue, and before Joker can continue, Schiff lunges for Maroni, that twitchy little smile now a serene grin as they topple to the ground.

I step back toward Joker, hearing him whisper in my ear "Now don't _worry_, Batsy—you'll get your turn. Let's let Schiff have his fun, _hmm?_"

Suddenly I find myself feeling a twinge of unease. The "audience" cheers for blood.


	54. Chapter 54: Batsy

Well, here we are. Part one of final chapter. Part 2 will be out tonight, and the Author's Note will probably appear in the next few days.

(Sniffle).

Disclaimer: I don't own _The Dark Knight_, only this plot.

**Chapter Fifty-Four: Batsy (End)**

I watch as Schiff's hands claw at Fico's neck, his expression eerily serene.

The rest of Joker's men are cheering him on, keeping the other Mobsters fenced in. Joker and I are standing off in the sidelines, waiting patiently. Joker had expected this sort of thing to happen. It had crossed my mind—the possibility of someone escaping, trying to fight his way out.

"_We'll let Schiff and the boys handle it_," Joker had told me, a sly grin on his face. _"Trust me, _they'll _know what to do._"

And they most certainly do. Several of the boys are checking on the rest of the Mobsters, just in case they get any ideas. Schiff's been shoved off by Fico, but is still holding his own.

"I'm gonna _kill _you—" Fico growls, but Schiff knocks his legs out from underneath him, sending him sprawling.

Joker's men clap their hands, and Joker's cackle cuts through the air.

Schiff bounces on his toes, that serene smile still on his face. "Get up," he says, as Fico glares up at him. "We're not done."

Fico scrambles to his feet, breathing hard in his rage. Schiff nods and clenches his fists, head cocked to one side. Fico's fist lunges forward—and misses. Schiff punches him in the jaw, and I hear something _crack._

Schiff glances quickly at Joker, never taking his eyes off Fico. "How'm I doing, Boss?"

"You're doing _great_," Joker calls, nodding his approval. "Just as…_always._"

Schiff beams as Fico leaps at him with blood dripping from his mouth. Fico slams his fist into Schiff's jaw—but not before Schiff knees him in the stomach, and Fico's punch hardly connects.

Joker's men (and the "audience") cheer as Fico slumps to the ground. Schiff adjusts his collar and bowtie, hands trembling with adrenaline. He kneels next to Fico, Schiff's expression that of a wide-eyed innocent once again. A bruise is forming on his cheek.

"Now what, Boss?" he asks, bouncing on his heels once again. His eyes are gleaming with a manic pleasure. "_Now _what?"

Joker laughs and ambles over, staring down at the fallen Fico. "Good _question_, Schiff." He looks at me. "What do _you _think we should do, Batsy?"

The phrase floats around in my mind, taunting me. _What do _you _think _we_ should do, Batsy?_

What, indeed. The revenge plan is in motion—the first "acts" of the evening have occurred. Now the audience is waiting for the others.

I turn away from the Mobsters, from Joker's waiting goons, and from Joker. I stare out into the blackness of the theatre, where the "audience" waits.

I turn back to the Mobsters, looking them over. Most of them are struggling, others are staring at me with pleading eyes. Joker is lifting Fico's chin with his boot, smirking down at him. I'm vaguely surprised to find my skin beginning to warm at the sight.

_In any other situation…but not right now._

My mind is out of control again. _To kill or not to kill_. The choices slam through my brain, taunting me.

"Y'know, I think you've got one _hell _of a handbasket waiting for you," Joker says to Fico, his tone deceptively easygoing. "And I'm not the sort of person to, ah, _stand people up_."

He moves toward me, his knife flickering in the stage lights. "You ready, Batsy?"

I shut down the swirling roar inside my brain and nod. "Yes."

"Good, _good._" Joker tosses the knife to me, grinning. "Why don't _you _make the, ah,_ introduction_ this time?"

I raise the knife up to the light, watching as it takes on a sickly yellow gleam. Slowly, I point the tip at the Mobsters, watching as they huddle even closer together. The point of this particular "act" is to keep everyone in suspense—the Mobsters, the audience, _everyone. _It has to be perfectly timed.

"Well," I clear my throat and gesture to the audience. "I think another musical number is in store. Something like, say, Michael Buble's _Feelin' Good_?"

It may not be as dramatic as Joker's usual monologues, but it'll have to do.

The soundtrack cheers and claps as once again, Joker's 'boys' prove they can hold a tune _and_ be coordinated as well. The Mobsters, meanwhile, are growing more nervous with every line of the song.

I stay on the sidelines, keeping my eyes on the Mobsters, watching their every move. They fidget, their eyes shift from side to side, their faces gleam with sweat…and it's clear that they're slowly sinking into the realization that _they are going to die, _and soon.

Joker and his 'boys' know this. I know this too. And since we all understand the feeling of imminent death intimately, they sing their hearts out.

Finally, the song ends, the audience applauds, and the Mobsters are now openly trembling in fear.

Joker takes the mike from me once again. "_Lady-aces _and, ah, _gentledeuces_—I hate to say it, but the night is only _so _long, and we only have _so much time._"

The "audience" groans and whines in despair.

Joker holds up his hands, placating. "Ah-_tatatata_, don't _worry. _We have a grand finale that will…and I mean _will_…blow you _sky-high!_"

The "audience" likes that idea.

Before Joker can say any more, a strange _phup-phup-phup-phup _sound chops through the air dimly. The Mobsters stare up at the ceiling, mouths open and clearly dumbstruck. A large _clang _follows, making the theatre shudder and quake.

Joker grins at me. "Batsy?"

I take the walkie-talkie out of my pocket and nod. I press it close and say, "We're ready."

I hear an affirmative from the South Korean smuggler I hired for the occasion. He's never let me down before.

There's an ear-splitting sound that I can't quite describe—somewhere between a roar and a creak—and the roof is suddenly gone, lifted up by a black helicopter.

It's raining outside, and the rain pours down on the stage, slicking it with water, soaking our clothes and weapons. Joker laughs wildly, head raised to the sky, catching the raindrops on his tongue. His arms are outstretched, welcoming the storm. He spins slowly, taking me by the hand and lifting it up, as though proclaiming me champion.

I look up at the sky, at the huge metal shipping crate that descends onto the stage, and can't believe that the plan has gone so well.

I know what's inside the crate—Joker and I arranged everything by phone with the smugglers. There's caviar, and champagne, and cots—but only enough for so many people. It _might _last them all until they get to their destination…a glacial crevasse in the middle of nowhere. But then again, these people are greedy…

I gesture for the 'boys' to take the Mobsters away. Fico screams and tries to fight them off, but the boys are tough, tougher than he is, and simply drag him into his last home along with the others.

"Hey, ah, Batsy?" Joker turns to me, chewing on his lip. "Are you…_sure _this is such a good idea? I mean, they're all being shipped off _together. _With _supplies. _How can we be sure they're not going to have some 'connections' come and save their oily—"

I smile at him and shrug, taking the mike from his hands. "For those of you who are thinking of calling the PETA on us to save these…_dogs_, trust me when I say: only _one _of these guys is going to go hungry."

Once the Mobsters are settled inside, I look at them all one last time. They're confused by the white linen table cloths, the champagne glasses, the caviar, the large wardrobe filled with parkas, the chandelier (how the smugglers managed to hook all this up is a feat in and of itself). They look at us, then at the finery, and their eyes together seem to form a huge question mark.

Joker, mike in hand, is gleefully walking amongst the Mobsters, shoving the mike into their faces and crooning "_Soooo…_how does this, ah, _make you feel?_" and getting responses ranging from numb terror to a variety of colorful profanity.

I find my way over to Bertineli, who is glaring at me silently. I look him over, making sure the restraints are secure—if even one of the Mobsters breaks loose (besides Fico, of course), we'd have to kill them outright, which would "take the…_fun _out of it" as Joker says.

Schiff hands me the keys as he walks by, grinning at Bertineli with too many teeth.

"Open your mouth, Bertineli," I say as kindly as I can. It's the "kindness" that makes him shudder, his eyes losing that cool glare for a moment.

Bertineli reluctantly opens his mouth, and I place the keys to everyone's shackles inside. "Bite down." He bites down on the iron ring, looking uncomfortable. "Great. When you get to your destination, those will help you break free."

I turn and walk back onto the sure ground of the stage, hands in my pockets. Joker and his 'boys' scramble off the entryway to the crate and wave as a large automatic door slowly closes, then locks, leaving the Mobsters with nowhere else to go…but up.

Joker looks at me and leans over, whispering in my ear "I _saw _that" and wrapping an arm around my shoulder. "Sometimes, Batsy, you're _just too cute. _Always a good samaritan on _some _level, _hmm?_"

I roll my eyes.

As the helicopter lifts off, we bow as one, and the curtains close.


	55. Chapter 55: Batsy End

Well, here we have it. _The end. _The Author's Note will appear in a few days.

Disclaimer: I don't own _The Dark Knight_, only this plot.

**Chapter 55: Batsy (End)**

We change into our "street clothes" as quickly as possible, and leave our sequined getups piled on stage.

"Oh-_kay_," Joker says, taking his "calling card" out of the pocket of his purple coat and dropping it on the stage. I place mine beside it, marveling at the way they fit together.

"C'mon, Batsy, we've gotta get _goin'_!" Joker is already leaping off the stage. "It'd take the, ah, _fun _out of it if we got _caught_, right?"

I follow him, barely bothering to look at the empty seats around us—Boss Boy is already packing up the camera and the recorder. I brush my hands across the seats—scratchy wool tickling the my palms.

In only a few moments, the boys are packing into cars, high-fiving each other and laughing fit to burst. Joker isn't running now. He's striding toward our car of the evening, a nondescript van. He unlocks it, hops in, and I climb in beside him. We take off, with the boys behind us.

I poke my head out the window and watch the black helicopter as it chops away, with the Mobsters in tow. I can just see them struggling in there. I close my eyes and let the wind go through my hair. It's a wonderful feeling, this feeling of freedom.

It feels like white noise.

"Hey, Batsy, look!"

I watch as several police cars come zooming down the road all around us, heading to the old theatre. I see the glimmer of glasses and a salt-and-pepper mustache. Inspired, I wave as they drive by, adrenaline coursing through my veins. The white noise crackles through my mind, like a old record.

I watch as all of Gotham swerves by us, the lights blending into one solid strip of gold and blue and red and orange, and the cars rush by, and I can hear people talking and laughing and screaming and fighting in the distance, and it is good.

I reach out a hand, and the wind smacks it around, but I don't care. Joker laughs gleefully as I shake my head in the wind, breathing in the smoggy warm air in big gulps, as if I was drowning before this moment.

I guess in a way I was.

I settle myself back into the van, but keep the window open just in case.

Joker suddenly giggles, and I peer back inside to look at him. His eyes are on the road, but his shoulders are shaking. Finally, he lets out a roar of laughter, accidentally slapping the horn and sending a little lady driver into hysterics.

"Oh, _Batsy. _Oh, you ah-_maz_-ing little _minx. _You gave 'em _the keys! _Y'know, if nothing else, we _at least _gave them _someone to eat. _I just_ wish _I could see Bertineli turn to the others and ask 'What's eatin' _you?_' Bertineli, with his belly _grumblin'_, down to his last _gangster_…!"

"I'm glad you're so pleased," I say with a hint of sarcasm, waving to the little old lady as she putters off. "Call it reinforcing an old lesson someone taught me."

Joker snorts and chuckles and becomes illuminated in red light. His kohl is running slightly as tears of glee run down his face. His eyes are on fire with pure joy and triumph, and I can feel my expression is exactly the same.

"Though you know, I'm curious as to what that remaining Mobster is going to do with all his free time…" I rub my chin thoughtfully.

Joker shrugs and drums his fingers on the wheel, waiting for the green light. "Who knows? Maybe he'll, ah, make a _getaway?_"

I shake my head and watch the other cars and the drivers. Some drivers are businessmen, some are lawyers, some are limos or sports cars filled with my old socialite "friends". The metal frames gleam in the city lights, jewels on Lady Gotham's crown. And here we are, the crown jewel, cracked and dusty, but _real_, unlike the other plastic gems in her crown.

"Uh, Batsy? _Heeeeey…_something, ah, _caught your eye?_"

I suddenly realize I've been staring at the purple curl of Joker's gloved hands on the wheel. "It's nothing."

"A pretty…_intense_ nothing, I'd say," Joker purrs, turning away from the traffic light (still red) and focusing his attention on me.

I chuckle and absently run my hands through his hair, my fingers catching in the tangles. "You should keep your eyes on the road," I warn him.

"The road's not…_leaving _any time soon."

Joker looks slyly at me, the red of the traffic light emphasizing the scars on his face.

"Y'know, Batsy, you and I just successfully rid ourselves—_and Gotham_—of this, ah, _fair_ city's biggest _schemers. _I say we…_party_!"

"True," I mutter, curling my arm around his shoulder.

Joker seems to hesitate. "Ah…one question, Batsy. Who says that, ah, _shipment of fat cats _won't just…call for _help?_"

"They can't. They have no phones." I raise an eyebrow. "But Schiff does. And soon, Schiff is going to be sending them all to Gordon."

"Ooooh…and these phones are gonna have _all _their, ah, _contacts_, aren't they?"

"Yes."

"Whoops," Joker says, mischief coating his voice. "Green light—_gotta go!_"

I lurch back in my seat as we zoom off again, Joker cackling merrily.

"Do you _want _to give me a heart attack?" I growl, as Joker's laughter cools down to a scattered burst of giggles.

"'Course not," he replies, patting me on the back. "What would I do with the body?"

I roll my eyes. "You have a twisted sense of humor. I'm sure you'd think of something."

Joker snorts. "_True. _Anyway, I have something…_special _planned for our celebration. And by the _by_, it doesn't involve ruining this car. There's a pretty little charter plane waiting for us at the airport."

I almost can't believe what I'm hearing. "Where to?"

Joker grins and pulls out a ragged, taped-up map out of the glove compartment. "Close your eyes…and _point._"

I do as he says, feeling the map cave in slightly as I press my finger into… "Wales," I tell him, leaning back in my seat. "Sound good to you?"

"Mm-_hmmm_," Joker replies, unbuttoning a few buttons on his waistcoat—to let the night air in. Or as a not-very-subtle seduction tactic. "Don't worry—we'll find some things to do on the way there. It _is _First Class, after all…"

"Sounds nice," I say, once again watching the cars go by. "But what about Jack and the boys?"

Joker laughs. "_That_…is where Schiffy comes in." Joker cocks his head to one side, expression thoughtful. "You _know_, I was thinking of him as more of a…_butler._"

"An Alfred Jr.?"

"_Maaaaybe._"

We continue driving in silence, the minutes ticking by: 2:50…2:51…2:52…2:53…2:54…

Just before we reach the airport, I curl my arm around Joker's waist, my fingers drumming against his hip. He snickers, but nothing else.

I wonder if I should tell him about that dream with the hearts, if it really matters right now. I look at Joker's giddy expression as first light slowly turns to dawn. His green-brown hair catches the light, taking on a golden tint. He turns and looks at me, a glint in his eyes, and I know the dream can wait.

"Say…_Batsy. _Have you ever, ah, cracked a _safe _before?"

"Not that I can remember, no. Why?"

Joker grins in the rearview mirror. "Oh, nothing. Just a new, ah, _game_ I have in mind."

"Tell me on the plane…" I adjust my arm on his shoulder. "…_After _we 'find some things to do', as you put it. And food."

Joker cackles. "Only a pair of _freaks _like us would be hungry after _that _little show. But I _did _take the liberty of stocking the plane with some pies from Betty's."

I put my head out the window again, breathing in the early morning air. "We wouldn't have it any other way, would we?" I watch as dawn tints the city of Gotham, causing the buildings to gleam with hope, and the street lights to gutter and die quick deaths.

Joker looks sideways at me, his whole body relaxed. "_'Course_ not."

**FINIS**


	56. The Author's Final Words On The Subject

_**The Games We Play: **_**The Author's Final Words On The Subject**

**By**

**Godell**

**Disclaimer: **I own my comments. I do not own _The Dark Knight_, or the songs that I used for the soundtrack.

First, let me say that I'll try to not bore you all to death. All of you lovely reviewers deserve _much more _than me going on and on about how this all came to be.

It may come as a surprise to you all, but when I saw _The Dark Knight _for the first time in July of 2009 (I was late to the party), I was utterly horrified by Joker.

I sat at my computer, hunched down in my chair, looking behind me in the near-pitch-black room every few minutes, _just _to be sure that he wouldn't sneak up behind me, put his knife to my throat, and whisper in my ear "Wanna know…how I got these _scars?_" and "put a _smile _on that _face_". I shuddered as he stalked around Rachel (the character who helped me _want _to write female characters again). For the first time in a long time, I was truly afraid of a fictional villain.

But somehow, in the midst of all my slack-jawed awe at everything _but _Batman and Joker's twisted little fandango—something I normally would have caught and ran with right away—Joker crept into my mind, and settled himself (and by association Batman/Batsy) into the "Muse Throne", if you will.

It wasn't so much that they had me at "You complete me"—instead, they had me at "Don't talk like one of them—you're_ not!_"

But I didn't know it. I went on with my writer's block and my usual business, while internally Joker was lighting a match. While I was practically slamming my head against the keys, Joker had placed the flame on a stick of dynamite. By the time I was out vacationing with my family, that dynamite had very nearly reached the end of its fuse.

That was when The Dream happened.

They say that the Trickster archetype is the oldest in existence. Before the brave heroes and the knights and the princesses, etc., there were the Tricksters, the bringers of fire, the seducers of women (and men), the mischief-makers. It is the most identifiable of all the archetypes—the Trickster _can win or lose_, can do both good _and _evil. He or she crosses boundaries and steps over them again, and encourages us to do the same. But they also can bring about many Aesopian situations.

Of course, my subconscious just _had _to see that same role for Joker, and my dreams ran with it.

The Dream, in essence, was what was going to become Chapter One, and which later was spit into Chapters One to Three. The strangest thing was, that while I hadn't even _thought _of _The Dark Knight _since watching it, I _could_ remember Joker's voice. He spoke out to "Batsy", claiming him to be "a very, ah, _poor _student", while Batman growled, and argued, and struggled with his own choices.

Of course, once that dream occurred I couldn't get our favorite Clown Prince of Crime (and Dark Detective) out of my head. I refused at first to write the dream down—something I'm still confused about today. Maybe I was being stubborn. Maybe I just didn't know what that simple dream could become. Maybe a bit of both.

Regardless, on August 23, 2009, I wrote what I _thought _was a oneshot (it may even still say so on the first Chapter!). Looking back now, it's strange to see how much my opinion of Joker and Batsy has changed since then. For example, back then I wasn't entirely sure of how Joker would "celebrate" escaping Arkham, or his "tastes" in certain things. And now, 55 Chapters later, here we are.

I say "we", because every last one of you (reviewers, visitors, etc.) have made this all worthwhile. I'm not saying that lightly, either. Without your support and expressed delight at reading each new chapter, _The Games We Play _would be only five chapters long (if that) and not half as entertaining for all involved. When I thought that my troubles were getting a bit _too _melodramatic and awful, it was you readers who cheered me up by leaving thoughtful reviews and hits.

So it is thanks to you that this happened. Particular thanks must be given to **Indigo's Ocean**, for sending along a few helpful criticisms, suggested mp3s and in general helping this whole "show" if you will, become a reality. Thanks also to **dollhouseDISASTER **for giving this fic a chance and sending along your boundless enthusiasm, thus making _me _enthusiastic, and so on. And thanks to **Karrana **for allowing me to "corrupt" you and get some of your insight in the process (and, of course, for your help with Mr. Glum and Mr. Giggles in particular!). 

And:

**HEATH LEDGER**

**(1979-2008)**

**An actor. A father. A lover. A brother. A son. A man. A muse. You will live on forever…in dreams, memories, film and through your daughter Matilda.**

**THE CAST AND CREW OF THE DARK KNIGHT**

**Minor or major, you changed the world on July 18****th****, 2008. Thanks to you, that year will never be forgotten, and the world received a classic to last forever.**

…I would like to have a moment of silence to honor these people. (And a collective pat on the back/hug to all of you, whatever your current "form"!)

…

"And now for something completely different".

I would like to thank the awesome **Indigo's Ocean** for recommending (and sending me) numbers 5, 6 and 12 of the soundtrack listed below! Several of these songs were played multiple times as I wrote—some of them you may recognize from the fic itself—but I kept them as chronological as I could.

_**The Games We Play Soundtrack:**_

"**Over and Over"—**_**Three Days Grace**_

"**Pierrot the Clown"—**_**Placebo**_

"**Time Is Running Out"—**_**Muse**_

"**Why So Serious?**_**"**_**—**_**The Dark Knight Soundtrack**_

"**Constellation"—**_**Juliana Theory**_

"**Plug In Baby"—**_**Muse**_

"**For Real"—**_**Okkervil River**_

"**You've Got A Killer Scene There, Man…"—**_**Queens of The Stone Age**_

"**Waste"—**_**Phish**_

"**Saints of Los Angeles"—**_**Motley Crue**_

"**If You Wanna"—**_**Parka**_

"**Collide"—Howie Day**

"**Absolutely Cuckoo"—**_**The Magnetic Fields**_

"**Haven't Met You Yet"—Michael Buble**

"**Master Plan"—Adam Lambert**

"**For Your Entertainment"—Adam Lambert**

"**Hysteria"—**_**Muse**_

"**It's Oh So Quiet"—Bjork**

"**Toothpaste Kisses"—**_**The Maccabees**_

"**Brighter Than Sunshine"—**_**Aqualung**_

"**Blood on My Hands"—**_**The Dark Knight Soundtrack**_

"**Just Dance"—Lady Gaga**

"**Sussudio"—Phil Collins**

"**Disturbia"—Rihanna**

"**My Sweet Prince"-**_**Placebo**_

"**I Was Born To Love You"—**_**Queen**_

"**Sunshine of Your Life"—**_**Cream**_

"**Puttin' On The Ritz"—Fred Astaire**

"**Sin"—**_**Nine Inch Nails**_

"**Bad Romance"—Lady Gaga**

"**Use Me"—Bill Withers**

"**The Night Will Go As Follows"—**_**The Spill Canvas**_

"**I'm Not In Love"—Tori Amos**

"**A Dog Chasing Cars"—**_**The Dark Knight Soundtrack**_

"**Blackout"—Muse**

"**Sexual Healing"—Marvin Gaye**

"**20****th**** Century Boy"—**_**Placebo **_**(cover)**

"**Crazy Little Thing Called Love"-**_**Queen**_

"**New York, New York"—**_**Reel Big Phish **_**(cover)**

"**Feelin' Good"—Michael Buble (cover)**

"**I Belong To You"—**_**Muse **_

"**Play The Game"—**_**Queen**_

"**The Dark Knight Theme (Darker Version)"—Hans Zimmer**

Like the fanfic I wrote for _Black Cat _(_Amantes sunt Amentes)_, this has been a great ride, and one I have found to be remarkably rewarding. I hope my writing has improved over time, and will continue to improve, and that all of you who have read through those 55 chapters will find the things I write in the future enjoyable.

Wait, wait—Joker wants to say something (Batsy's sleeping):

"Batsy's sleeping like a…_well-nursed _baby. _Thank _you _all _for putting up with our, ah, _antics. _You've made us all so…_happy _over here (well, 'cept for Batsy, but _you _know how he's been). So, ah, here we are in _Wales_…Cardiff, if you want to…_get to the nitty-gritty. _

Schiffy's being a _good butler_, bringing me coffee fresh from the little shop in the hotel. It's 11 p.m. here, and while I _should _be taking a cue from Batsy and, ah, _laying my little head down to rest_, I'm a bit…_busy _with trying to keep the boys at home from, ah, _going AWOL._

…_Hmmm…_maybe the, ah, _Commish _could use a bit of a workout. Get those _donuts_ out of his system.

Anyway, don't you _fret_—we'll keep you, ah, _up to snuff _on our _dashing derring-do_. And who knows? Maybe…just _maybe_…you'll find yourselves _trying out for our team. _That is, if you're _game. _But don't you worry—_I _have faith in you. (It _would _be a 'we' if Batsy wasn't sleeping…)

G'night, all. _Sweet dreams…_"

Thank you, everyone. 


End file.
